NIVERSITY  OF  CA  RIVERSIDE  ,  LIBRARY 


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1  m 


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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


THE   PERFUME   HOLDER 
and  Other  Poems 


THE 

PERFUME  HOLDER 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY 

CRAVEN   LANGSTROTH   BETTS 

/// 

AUTHOR  OF  "SONGS  FROM  BERANGER," 

"TALES  OF  A  GARRISON  TOWN," 

"THE  PROMISE,  ETC." 


NEW  YORK 

JAMES  T.   WHITE  AND  COMPANY 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922 
BY  JAMES  T.  WHITE  AND  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved 


TO  THE  NOBILITY  OF  ART 
EVERYWHERE 


For  permission  to  reprint  various  poems,  the  author 
acknowledges  the  courtesy  of  the  Independent,  The  Out- 
look, Harper's  Weekly,  Puck  and  the  New  York  Herald. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 3 

MAJOR  POEMS 

Hymn  to  the  Spirit  of  Beauty 39 

Astrophel 45 

Ode  to  Spring 50 

"   Autumn 55 

"   Winter 58 

Diana  and  Endymion 68 

Deformed 72 

The  Ever-growing  Truth 77 

Eugenie  on  the  Death  of  Her  Son 82 

Resurgam •.  86 

In  the  Gloaming 91 

Canadian   Thanksgiving  Hymn 94 

The  Hollyhocks 96 

California 98 

To  the  Poets 101 

The  Slumber 103 

One  Kin  Are  We 104 

The  Vision 106 

The  Birthplace  of  Freedom 109 

The  Golden-rod in 

January 113 

The  Barren  Fig-Tree 114 

Questions  of  Life 115 

To  the  Bumble-Bee 117 

The   Poor  Apple  Woman 119 

Childless 120 

My  Three  Friends 122 

Thanksgiving    Hymn 124 

A  Withered  Rose 126 

Betrayed 127 

The   Votive   Rose 128 

Society  and  Art 129 

Lines  on  a  Picture 130 

"Just  as  High  as  My  Heart" 131 

The  Prisoner  of  Love 132 

In    Memoriam 134 

Robert    Browning 136 

To  Sidney  Lanier 138 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

MAJOR  POEMS— Continued  PAGE 

Marlowe 141 

Requiescat 142 

Lines  on  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 145 

"Threescore  and  Ten" 147 

To  Richard  Henry  Stoddard 149 

SONGS  AND  LYRICS 

Hey,  Ho,  Robin ! 153 

Written  for  a  Canadian  National  Anthem     ....  155 

Love  Leading 157 

A  Song  of  Summer 160 

Saint  Christmas 162 

"The  Springtime  Lingereth  Long,  Love" 165 

Fairies'  Song 167 

My  Lassie  with  Your  Eyes  of  Blue 170 

Fair  as  Ceres  Bearing  Guerdon 172 

A  Song  of  the  Dawn 174 

Sea  Song 176 

Invocation  to  Love 179 

My  Lady  from  the  Sea 181 

My  Sonneteer 183 

Song  for  the  Empire  State 186 

A  Song  of   Hope 187 

Cradle  Song 188 

FRENCH  FORMS 

French   Forms 192 

The  Immortality  of   Song 193 

The  Renascence  of   Spring 196 

The  Coming  Age 199 

The  Advantage  of  Love 202 

Under    Marlboro' 204 

Ballade  of  the  Sea-Serpent 1  206 

Ballade  of  the  Tailor 208 

The  Servant  of  the  Muse 210 

The  Bogey  of  English  Free  Trade 212 

Beranger's   Songs 214 

My  Tricksy  Muse 215 

A  Rustic  Scene 216 

A  Perfect  Friend *  217 

The  Heart's  Voyage '  218 

O  Sovereign  Love 22r 

The  Vision  of  the  Dis  Debar    ....  222 

Triolets 22, 

QUATRAINS 

The  Quatrain       .  ,,* 

....          IT-                  m    m  mm                           <J2O 

The  Universal  Life 227 

Standing-Room ....'.'     .     .'  227 


CONTENTS  ix 

QUATRAINS — Continued  PAGE 

The  World-Maelstrom  of  the  West 227 

Knowledge  and  Wisdom 227 

Penuel 228 

Evolution 228 

Love 228 

On  Certain  Academicians 228 

Old  and  New  Art 229 

To  Certain  Critics 229 

The    Basic    Force 229 

The  Conventional  Parson 229 

Midas  and  Company 230 

Cave  Canem  ! 230 

Pegasus  at  Pasture 230 

Orthodox  Liberalism 230 

The  Poets  and  Mammon 231 

Sonnets  and  Sonneteers 231 

The  Shakespearean  Sonnet 231 

Poets  and  Poetasters .  231 

On  the  Spiritual  Barnum 232 

Truth 232 

To  Some  New  Critics 232 

Fancy 232 

Self-Knowledge 233 

True  and  False  Fame ,  233 

Beranger 233 

The  Rule  of  Rapacity 233 

The   Profligate  of   Kindness 234 

Traits  of  Women 234 

The  Invincible  Sex 234 

The  Curse  of  the  Coquette 234 

Artificial    Refinement 235 

Woman's  Heart 235 

DOUBLE  QUATRAINS 

Life 235 

The   Iliad 236 

The    Press 236 

The  Years  of  Life 237 

Human   Existence 237 

Truth 238 

Shakespeare 238 

The  Humble-Bee 239 

Hope  and  Despair 239 

Faith  and  Love 240 

Pleasure  and  Joy 240 

BALLADS 

Canada  to  England 243 


x  CONTENTS 

BALLADS — Continued 

The  Bonnet  Blue 24° 

Soldiers'  Home 24« 

Good  Saint  Valentine 252 

The  Earl's  Daughter 254 

The  Old  Sabre 2§7 

Lamond 2™ 

On  the  Frontier 2°7 

Devon  and  Drake 273 

Mary    Jane 2j6 

Blind  Milton 27» 

Defence  of  the  Long  Saut 282 

Goring's  Ride 29i 

Lady  Maud 293 

SONNETS  , 

Foreword 29° 

Out  of  the  Darkness  (3  Sonnets) 297 

Britain  and  Her  Colonies 299 

England  and  the  Armada 299 

Belgium 3OO 

Japan 300 

Montenegro 3O1 

Switzerland 3QI 

Holland 302 

A  Warning  to  the  Kaiser 302 

The  Lighted  Liberty 303 

The  Half-Century  Reunion  at  Gettysburg 303 

Evening  at  City  Point,  James  River,  1890     ....  304 

Charlotte   Corday 304 

Shakespeare 305 

Lincoln 305 

Alfred  and  Charlemagne 306 

Cromwell 306 

Abdul  Hamid,  the  "Shadow  of  God" 307 

Garibaldi 307 

Salvini 308 

Othello 308 

Irving 309 

Booth 309 

On  Reading  the  Autobiography  of  Benvenuto  Cellini  .  310 

John  Henry  Boner 310 

The  House  of  Lords 311 

Don  Quixote 311 

To  the   Moon-Flower 312 

The   Condor 312 

Honor  and   Fame 313 

Love  and  Truth 313 

Wisdom  and  Knowledge 314 


CONTENTS  xi 

SONNETS — Continued  PAGE 

Peace •     •  3*4 

Fortitude 315 

The  Unseen  World 3*5 

Humanitas 3*6 

Personality 3J6 

Duty 317 

Science 317 

The  Tide  of  Time 318 

Death 318 

The  Closing  Walls 319 

Life's    Voyage 3J9 

The  Return 320 

Grand    Manan 32° 

The  Water  Lily  (2  Sonnets) 321 

Spring  Morning 322 

Summer  Night  in  the  Country 322 

The   Bather 323 

Summer  Noon 323 

To  a  Friend 32.4 

Love 324 

The  Conjunction  of  Love 325 

The  Security  of  Love 325 

The  Fortitude  of  Love 326 

The  Favor  of  Love 326 

The  Quality  of  Love 327 

Devotion  of  Love 327 

Immortality  of   Love 328 

Constancy         328 

To  329 

To  329 

The  Ideal 330 

The   Ideal   Found 330 

To  Astrea  (8  Sonnets) 331 

A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS 

To  Shakespeare 336 

Homer 337 

Chaucer 337 

Tasso 338 

Spenser 338 

Marlowe 339 

Shakespeare 339 

Milton 340 

Dryden        340 

Pope 341 

Burns 341 

Scott 342 

Byron 342 


xii  CONTENTS 

A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS— Continued  PAGB 

Keats 343 

Shelley 343 

Coleridge 344 

Wordsworth 344 

Hood 345 

Schiller 345 

Goethe 346 

Beranger 346 

Hugo 347 

Tennyson 347 

Browning 348 

Arnold        348 

Bayard  Taylor 349 

Emerson 349 

Longfellow 350 

Lowell 350 

Whittier 351 

Whitman 351 

Morris 352 

Kipling 352 

Mistral        353 

L  Envoi 354 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 
A  Persian  Love  Poem 


This  poem  is  derived  from  a  prose  story,  called     Sehm 
the  Unsociable,"  by  Arthur  Kennedy  and  originally  pub- 
lished in  Temple  Bar. 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

PROUD  Naishapur,  two  hundred  years  ago, 
Inviolate  from  the  galling  Turkish  foe, 
Like  a  warm  opal  dropped  from  Allah's  hand, 
Lay  glimmering  on  the  green  Khorassan  land. 
Girdling  the  South,  the  desert's  sandy  coil 
Strangled  the  verdure  and  oppressed  the  soil; 
But  East  and  North  the  languorous  noon-day  breeze 
Lifted  the  leaves  of  lime  and  tamarind  trees 
Over  the  hills,  within  whose  broken  row 
The  gleaming  city  watched  the  river  flow. 
Along  the  camel  track  from  Ispahan, 
Came  tinklings  of  the  nearing  caravan, 
Trailing  its  parched,  dust-cumbered  passage  down 
Into  the  market  of  the  wealthy  town. 
Piercing  the  vibrant  ether,  bold  to  view, 
A  hundred  minarets  burned  athwart  the  blue; 
The  purple  roofs  of  mosques,  like  sunset  isles, 
Blazed  all  their  panoply  of  porcelain  tiles, 
While  from  the  walls  the  names  of  Allah  shone 
In  many  a  scrolled  and  squared  device  of  stone. 
Color  and  light  loomed  everywhere;  their  glow 
Burnished  the  booths  and  houses,  row  on  row; 
They  flamed  across  the  palace  court-yard  flags 
And  blazoned  even  the  cringing  beggar's  rags. 
The  darkling  ponds  and  fountains  steely-cold 
The  sun's  keen  alchemy  changed  to  shimmering  gold; 
And  marble  cupolas  and  awnings  white 
Flashed  forth  all  splendid  with  reflected  light; 
While  green  pomegranate  leaf  and  pregnant  vine 

3 


4  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

Gained  prouder  lustre  from  the  teeming  shine. 
All  earth  was  bathed  in  palpitating  heat; 
The  sun-rays  searched  enclosure,  lane,  and  street, 
And  streamed  along  the  cream-white  painted  walls 
Of  gardens  and  the  roofs  of  market  stalls, 
Spreading  one  glare  of  yellow  radiance  down 
O'er  hill  and  valley,  desert,  wood,  and  town. 

High  noon  in  Naishapur! — the  gay  bazaars, 

Heaped  with  their  wares  wrought  under  half  the  stars, 

One  ant-like,  huge,  conglomerate  market  made, 

Coursed  with  a  hundred  throbbing  veins  of  trade. 

Yet  the  loud  buzz  of  traffic  even  there 

Sinks  at  the  high  Muezzin's  call  to  prayer, 

While  so  oppressive  grows  the  blaze  of  day 

That  even  the  water  carriers  shirk  the  way. 

A  little  longer  swirls  the  busy  bruit 

About  the  coffee  stalls  and  booths  of  fruit; 

A  moment  longer  does  the  merchant  stop, 

Claps-to  the  slender  shutters  of  his  shop, 

Then  in  his  flapping  slippers  homeward  hies 

To  prayer,  to  pipe,  to  Fatima's  dark  eyes. 

In  the  brass-worker's  noisy,  bright  bazaar 

Hushed  are  the  chaffering  and  the  hammer's  jar, 

And  silence  settling  o'er  earth's  fevered  face, 

Soothes  for  an  hour  the  throbbing  market-place. 

One  man,  a  poor  artificer  in  brass, 
Stirs  not  as  forth  the  hurrying  vendors  pass; 
But  soon  as  quiet  breathes  along  the  street, 
Springs  from  his  leathern  cushion  to  his  feet, 
Lays  by  the  lantern  he  had  shaped  that  day, 
Looks  out  along  the  cleared,  deserted  way, 
Takes  down  the  bowl  of  curds  and  loaf  of  bread 
That  stand  upon  the  shelf  above  his  head, 
Hooks  up  a  curtain  o'er  his  small  retreat 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

Which  opens  full  upon  the  busy  street, 
Casts  one  more  glance  along  the  farther  wall, 
Then  hides  himself  behind  the  portal-shawl. 

One  might  have  heard  within  that  curtain  soon 

A  tapping  through  the  hot  and  quiet  noon: 

A  strange  man  this — mayhap  for  love  of  gain 

He  works  mid-day  when  all  for  rest  are  fain  ? 

Such  was  his  custom,  and  the  passers  by 

Had  ceased  to  scan  him  with  a  curious  eye. 

The  gossips  had  no  tale  of  him  to  tell; 

They  named  him  Selim  the  Unsociable. 

Too  poor  for  note  of  even  the  idlest  there 

Was  he,  and  why  he  spent  the  hour  of  prayer 

Behind  his  curtain,  save  for  rest  and  shade, 

None  knew  or  cared;  few  were  that  sought  his  trade. 

'Twould  seem  such  anxious  privacy  and  heed 

Had  little  use;  the  street  was  bare,  indeed, 

Save  vagrant  dogs  that  strewed  the  shining  track, 

Like  pious   Moslems  sleeping  in   a  pack, 

Snarling  in  dream,  because  the  heated  bricks 

In  poignant  fancy  smote  them  like  the  kicks 

Of  Allah's  Faithful — snapping  jaws  in  pain, 

Then  stretching  out  their  quivering  legs  again. 

Who  treads  with  silent  pace  the  empty  street, 
Then  halts  and  hearkens  to  that  hammer's  beat? 
Well  might  you  mark  him  by  his  furtive  eye 
A  friend  to  Falsehood,  grasping,  shrewd  and  sly. 
To  Selim's  booth  he  moves, — he  makes  a  stand, — 
The  curtain  raises  with   a  stealthy  hand 
And  peers  within;  the  sudden  shaft  of  light 
Flashes  a  marvelous  work  upon  his  sight; 
For  lo,  between  the  craftsman's  bended  knees, 
Prouder  than  aught  that  Shah  or  Sultan  sees, 
With  lines  of  purest  arabesque  enscrolled, 


6  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

A  perfume-holder,  rich  as  burnished  gold, 
Wrought  all  in  brass,  cut  round  with  lace  designs, 
With  mottoes  graved  between  the  flowing  lines; 
Of  antique  mould  the  base;  superbly  fair 
The  swelling  bowl;  and  like  a  lily  in  air 
The  stem  rose  curving;  and  its  feet  were  wrought 
With  cunning  art  from   Indian  carvers  caught. 
A  miracle  of  rare  and  patient  art, 
Informed  by  genius  ripening  from  the  heart, 
Such  as  might  lift  the  incense  at  the  shrine 
Of  Allah  or  of  Mahomet  the  Divine. 
One  might  forego  all  sense  save  that  of  sight, 
The  life-long  master  of  that  heart's  delight. 

You  in  the  cloud-spanned,  amethystine  West, 
Know  not  what  ceremonious,  prideful  zest 
The  Persian  in  his  mistless,  azure  air, 
Brings  to  his  perfume  even  as  'twere  his  prayer. 
The  perfume-holder,  no  effeminate  whim, 
Holds  ever  first  and  honored  place  with  him ; 
Drop  on  the  powder  but  some  glowing  coals, 
Lo,  from  its  bowl  the  spiralled  perfume  rolls; 
Dear  unto  Allah  as  the  mingled  breath 
Of  lovers  passing  through  the  gates  of  death. 

To  lie  awake  in  one  bliss-haunted  dream 

Where  leaves  are  rustling  and  cool  fountains  gleam, 

Within  a  vine-hung,  lustrous  colonnade, 

While  near,  some  large-eyed,  love-enchanted  maid 

Leans,  lily-crowned,  against  a  marble  jar, 

Caressing  languidly   her   light   guitar, 

Her  fingers  glancing  o'er  the  shimmering  strings 

Like  play  of  moonbeams  on  deep  bubbling  springs, 

Wooing   the   soul   of   melody    divine 

From  murmuring  streams  and  groves  of  haunted  pine, 

Her  bosom  lifting  to  the  waves  of  sound 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

That  have  in  one  delicious  languor  drowned 
The  outer  sense,  leaving  the  spirit  free 
To  revel  in  one  swoon-like  ecstasy — 
And   then   to  watch   the   pungent   vapor  curl 
With  man}'  a  slender  and  fantastic  swirl 
Swung  through  the  vibrant  music,  till  the  air 
Freighted  with  tinkling  sounds  and  odors  rare 
Filters  soul-deep  within  the  fleshly  mail, 
Till,  rapt,  escaping  from  the  body's  jail, 
The  spirit  issuing  through  its  portal  flies 
To  fairy  realms  of  wonder  and  surmise — 
Such  were  indeed  a  taste  of  Paradise ! 

Small  thought  of  this  had  he,  that  sordid  spy, 
Who  on  the  masterpiece  cast  curious  eye. 
He  was  a  merchant,  trained  to  every  guile 
Of  trade, — to  fawn,  to  browbeat,  and  to  smile; 
Careful  to  hold,  in  every  scheme  he  tried 
Of  fraud  or  rapine,  law  upon  his  side. 
His  talon  fingers  in  their  crawling  clutch 
Pulled  forth  the  shadowing  curtain  overmuch, 
And  Selim,  of  his  presence  made  aware, 
Looked  up  and  met  the  intruder's  searching  stare, 
And  frowning,  marked  the  sordid  ruthless  trace 
Of  avarice  on  the  man's  ill-omened  face. 
Then  spake  the  stranger  with  a  smile  compressed, — 
"Selim,  has  Allah  made  the  time  of  rest 
Too  long,  or  given  too  brief  a  working  day, 
That  thus  you  toil  the  noontide  hour  away?" 
As  some  proud  courser  that  with  action  grand 
Tosses  aside  a  strange   caressing  hand, 
So  Selim  threw  his  head  back  at  the  word, 
For  hateful  to  him  was  the  voice  he  heard, 
And  answered:     "Surely  little   rest  doth  lie 
With  him,  O  merchant,  who  with  delving  eye 
Looks  either  in  broad  noon  or  yet  at  night 


8  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

On  that  which  others  fain  would  keep  from  sight. 
It  naught  concerns  my  business  to  attest 
Wherefore  I  work  at  mid-day  or  I  rest." 

He  set  aside  the  wonder-work  of  art 

And  waited  for  the  questioner  to  depart, 

Whose  sidelong,  hovering  glance  was  cast  about, 

Nor  rested  but  to  mark  the  vessel  out. 

He  named  a  price,  but  Selim  shook  his  head ; 

"Why  squander  words?    Tis  not  for  sale,"  he  said. 

The  other,   following  his  practiced  guile, 

Answered  with  fawning,  unbelieving  smile: 

"I  have  a  friend,  named  Marco,  from  the  North, 

Dealer  in  finished  brass,  who  ventures  forth 

From  Venice  even  to  the  farthest  East; 

He'd  give  the  price  of  many  a  lordly  feast 

For  such  a  thing  as  this,  would'st  thou  but  sell?" 

But  Selim  no  persuasion  might  compel 

To  barter;  wrathful  to  be  thus  addressed, 

He  locked  his  treasure  in  a  cedar  chest, 

Then  to  the  merchant  lifted,  one  by  one, 

The  simpler  works  of  brass  that  he  had  done, — 

They  were  but  few, — till  forth  the  chafferer  went 

And  left  him  with  his  solitude  content. 

But  he,  the  stranger,  when  he  passed  from  sight 

Of  Selim's  booth,  his  face  set  hard  and  white, 

Halted,  with  fingers  clenched  and  frowning  brow, 

And  pondered  deep,  as  one  who  frames  a  vow. 

The  swart  Egyptian  boy  who  lounged  before 

A  rich  brass-dealer's  widely-swinging  door 

Watched  with  a  keen  and  curious  surmise 

The  wicked  purpose  in  the  crafty  eyes, 

For  every  gesture,  every  glance  betrayed 

The  heart  of  greed  whose  hand  would  not  be  stayed. 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

A  strident  voice  came,  calling  from  afar 
The  hour  of  work;  at  once  the  clattering  jar 
Of  hammers  rose  again  athwart  the  air, 
The  seething  throng  poured  back  into  the  fair, 
And  through  its  alleys  swirled  the  babbling  flood, 
Like  buzzing  bees  a-swarm  within  a  wood. 
But  Selim,  through  his  resting  hour  intent 
And  keenly  active,  languid  now,  was  bent 
Above  the  brass-work,  as  though  toil  were  grown 
Distasteful  to  him  since  the  noon  had  flown. 
His  hammer  strokes,  less  eager,  blow  by  blow, 
Dropped  on  the  brass,  grew  slower,  still  more  slow, 
And  oft  he  clasped  his  brow  and  closed  his  eyes, 
Bruised  by  the  coarse  discordant  market  cries; 
Then  with  a  start,  as  if  in  self-disdain, 
Caught  up  the  unfinished  lantern  once  again. 


It  was  a  hot  and  glaring  afternoon ; 
Through  the  bazaar  the  hum  like  a  bassoon 
Surged  constant;  presently  a  clamorous  throng 
Came,  booming  with  the  beat  of  drum  and  gong, 
While,  blaring  fitfully,  the  snorting  blast 
Of  trumpets  on  the  scorching  air  was  cast. 
The  gathering  scuff  of  many  slippered  feet 
Came  now  low-rustling  down  the  dusty  street. 
The  loiterers  left  the  shadow  of  the  walls, 
Lured  by  the  shouts  and  boisterous  trumpet-calls. 
The  hammer-smiths  and  chafferers  paused  as  dashed 
The  flaunting  pageant  forth  and  by  them  flashed. 
The  last  Shah's  eldest  son,   'twas  bruited  wide, 
Was  riding  to  the  mosque  to  pledge  his  bride; — 
Next  to  the  Shah,  the  first  of  Persian  land, 
And  named  The-Shadow-of-the-Sultans-Hand. 
A  royal  graft  on  humble  stock  whose  sword 
Some  daring  day  might  make  him  Iran's  lord. 


io  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

But  Selim,  hooded  in  one  changeless  thought, 
Scarce  heard  the  tattle  that  the  gossips  brought. 
None  sought  to  cross  an  easy  word  with  him; 
They  deemed  his  silence  but  a  surly  whim. 
He,  caring  little  what  was  thought  or  said, 
So  that  they  left  him  quiet,  with  bowed  head, 
Blind  to  all  else,  held  survey  in  his  mind 
One  memory  with  his  inmost  soul  entwined. 
The  incompleted  lantern  he  let  lie; 
The  words  of  rumor  as  they  floated  by 
Blent  with  his  dream:     "The  flower  of  Iran's  land 
Is  his  beloved."     He  sighed,  looked  at  his  hand, 
Then  from  his  ringer,  slowly  and  in  pain, 
Unwrapped  a  narrow  linen.     He  was  fain 
To  draw  still  further  backward  from  the  sting 
Of  passing  eyes.     A  tiny  hammered  thing 
Of  brass,  close-twisted  to  a  biting  ring, 
Around  his  finger  showed,  whose  tissue,  red, 
Twinged  to  the  pressure  of  the  figured  shred. 
He  wet  the  cloth,  replaced  it,  while  a  chime 
Of  thoughts  went  swinging  backward  to  the  time 
When  she,  pale  lily  of  his  heart,  had  stept 
Across  the  doorway  where  his  goods  were  kept, 
And  in  a  playful,  blithely-mocking  vein, 
Had  given  him  this  circled  pledge  of  pain. 
Ay,  he   remembered,  how  upon   that  morn 
He  felt — all  wonder,  joy — his  soul  was  born ! 
How  he  had  gazed  upon  her  laughing  eyes 
As  at  a  Peri  wafted  from  the  skies, 
Fairer  than  houri  to  the  bosom  pressed 
Of  Mahomet  in  the  regions  of  the  Blest. 
Except  those  eyes,  each  glittering  like  a  star, 
Hex  face  was  veiled,  as  in  the  white  cymar 
She  glided  through  the  market;  oft  by  chance 
Caught  the  obeisance  and  adoring  glance 
Of  Selim,  sitting  laboring  in  his  booth; 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER  n 

And  as  she  viewed  the  trembling  rose  of  youth 
Throw  signal  on  his  cheek,  she  smiled,  again 
Returned  him  salutation ;  now  and  then 
Loitered  some  moments  at  his  little  stall, 
And  then  with  innocent  art  by  letting  fall 
Some  corner  of  her  veil,  in  hide-and-seek, 
Revealed  the  sweet  curved  vision  of  her  cheek 
Of  ripening  olive,  like  the  moon  in  mist, 
And  rose-red  lips  half  parting  to  be  kissed. 

One  day — one  of  those  few  thrice  happy  days 
That  star  perchance  a  lifetime — his  amaze 
Burning  his  face,  and  hope  still  hopeless  all, 
Rallying  his  heart  to  Love's  unreasoning  call — 
She  came  to  visit  Selim  and  to  buy 
Some  trinkets  of  his  patient  industry. 
Lingering  she  stayed  an  hour;  she  bade  him  tell 
The  way  he  wrought  the  brass;  with  playful  spell 
Now  drew  from  him  the  use  of  lead  and  pitch ; 
Then  took  the  die  and  punch  and  bade  him  teach 
Her  hand  to  cut  the  ductile  metal  through; 
One  little  die  she  held,  'twas  virgin  new; 
A  tiny  whorl  the  pattern  was;  she  tried 
To  punch  a  strip  of  brass,  while  he,  to  hide 
Her  slender  fingers  from  an  errant  blow, 
Shielded  them  with  his  ampler  hand,  and  so 
As  once  the  stroke  she  missed  and  still  again, 
Still  he  rejoiced  for  her  he  suffered  pain. 
At  length  she  gave  him  back  the  die;  he  swore 
With  words  of  fire,  no  one  should  use  it  more 
Except  himself,  nor  he  but  on  some  gift 
For  her;  then  she,  her  laughing  eyes  uplift 
To  Selim's  face,  and  with  a  doubting  air 
Mocking  his  earnestness,  yet  told  him  where 
A  kinsman  dwelt,  whose  hand  would  duly  take 
The  present  he  might  fashion  for  her  sake. 


12  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

Then  did  her  mood  to  childlike  humor  pass; 
Again  she  took  a  tiny  shred  of  brass 
And  twisting  it  with  pincers  in  a  ring 
Round  Selim's  finger  tightly,  tried  to  bring 
Mischievously,  across  the  strong  man's  face 
A  twinge  of  pain,  and  smiling  left  the  place. 

And  Selim,  never  from  that  hour  at  rest, 
Had  shrined  her  lovely  image  in  his  breast; 
A  few  more  times  she  passed  his  open  door 
Seeking  the  market,  but  she  smiled  no  more 
Upon  him,  though  his  eyes  with  hunger  sued; 
That  one  brief  meeting  never  was  renewed. 

Now  his  roused  purpose  to  one  issue  ran: 

Upon  that  day  he  straight  for  her  began 

A  perfume-holder,  lavishing  his  fond  heart 

Upon  it;  for  it  eased  him  of  his  smart 

To  feel  he  wrought  her  service,  and  to  see 

Its  beauty  heightening — as  some  stately  tree 

Spreads  in  the  desert — when  with  the  patterned  whorl 

He  would  its  richly  shining  face  impearl 

With  tiny  insets  glimmering  to  the  view, 

Fashioned  to  let  the  writhing  vapor  through. 

One  name  for  her. he  had  and  only  one: 

At  each  moon-end,  his  task  more  nearly  done, 

He  muttered  as  with  care  he  placed  apart 

The  gift,  "  Tis  for  The  Star-of-Selim's  Heart;" 

The  star  that  touched  the  wan,  the  lonely  sky 

Of  his  rapt  spirit,  and  then  passed  him  by. 

And  now  'twas  finished — every  tiny  scroll 
Wrought  perfect ;  but  the  work  in  Selim's  soul 
Was  never  finished,  but  incessant  beat 
Upon  his  heart,  while  through  the  mid-day  heat 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER  13 

The  hammers  with  their  clinking,  changeless  chime, 
Dinned  out  their  symphonies  to  unresting  Time. 

He  took  the  cunning  tool,  the  delicate  die 
That  formed  the  whorl,  and  with  a  gloomy  eye 
Defaced  its  pattern  with  his  file  and  cast 
The  steel,  disfeatured,  on  the  street,  then  passed 
One  hand  across  his  brow  to  smooth  its  pain, 
And  took  the  unfinished  lantern  up  again. 

Even  as  he  worked  a  warm  Elysian  dream 

Closed  o'er  him  like  a  sunset,  gleam  on  gleam. 

Upon  the  wings  of  passion  forth  he  flew 

To  clasp  her  where,  unknown  to  her,  in  view 

Of  fancy  he  had  held  her; — next  the  note 

Of  vision  changed ;  he  saw  her  vestments  float 

Snow-white  through  flower-strewn  ways,  and  on  her  face 

A  pleading  look,  as  one  who  asks  for  grace; 

For  she  was  now  the  seeker,  and  he — where? 

He  knew  not,  cared  not,  nor  could  seem  to  care; 

But  down  the  eddying  current  of  his  swound 

A  veiled  form  came  that  told  him  "I  have  found 

My  perfume-holder;"  straightway  he  was  made 

The  perfume-holder ;  smiling  then  she  laid 

Caressing  hands  upon  it,  and  did  speak 

It  fair,  and  pressed  it  to  her  velvet  cheek, 

And,  like  to  Allah's  blessing,  letting  fall 

Her  silk  of  hair  around  in  shining  pall; 

And  over  all — the  night  without  a  frown, 

And  the  white  moon  and  stars  were  shining  down. 

Then  for  one  moment,  through  the  hammered  brass 

He  felt  his  soul,  the  soul  of  Selim,  pass 

And  tremble  to  the  magic  of  her  touch. 

The  moment  sped ;  there  fell  low  voices,  such 

As  Allah  sends  to  true  believers,  when 

He  whispers  of  the  crooked  ways  of  men, 


14  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

That  called,  "O  Selim!    Where  is  Selim?"     Soon 
A  sweet  known  voice  made  answer  like  a  tune, 
"I  will  find  Selim,  for  I  know  him  by 
The  ache  within  his  finger";  then  the  sky 
Sank,  burdened  with  the  sorrow  and  the  pain 
Of  blighted  souls  that  on  sad  earth  remain; 
So,  forth  went  that  fair  form  that  held  the  voice 
Among  them,  seeking,  till  she  found  her  choice, 
Selim's  all-constant  pain:  with  that  began 
By  the  dream-power  the  building  of  a  man 
Like  Selim,  yet  unlike;  the  half-things  fell 
And  crumbled  in  the  falling;  but  the  spell 
Kept  on  till,  lo,  the  finish — head  to  feet! 
Then  for  some  moments  Selim  was  complete, 
Sitting  in  the  bazaar,  his  right  hand  laid 
Across  his  hammer,  and  the  lantern  stayed 
Between  his  knees;  but  nowhere  now  was  seen 
The  Star-of-Selim's- Heart — naught  but  the  sheen 
Of  brass-ware,  and  the  crowd  that  thronged  again 
The  market,  babbling  of  the  marriage-train. 

'Twas  but  some  moments  more — and  the  bazaar 

Vanished  again — upon  an  ivory  car 

He  sits,  the  enchanting  lady  by  his  side. 

Lo,  she  is  wreathed  with  roses  like  a  bride! 

Bright  as  Ayesha  in  the  Courts  of  Day; 

Pearled  like  a  dewy  lily  in  the  ray 

Of  morning.     Like  the  Shah's  his  kaftan  white 

Flames  with  a  diamond,  a  deep  fount  of  light, 

A  Sultan's  ransom;  forth  in  .state  they  ride 

Midst  cheers  that  surge  around  them  like  a  tide, 

Drawn  by  a  gold-and-crimson-harnessed  span 

Of  cream-white  horses,  (such  at  Ispahan 

Speeds  the  Shah  prayer-ward  on  great  days  of  state)  ;- 

So  move  they  proudly  to  their  blissful  fate; 

Flowers  rain  upon  them  and  their  coursers'  feet 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER  15 

Stamp  cloth  of  gold,  as  down  the  echoing  street 
They  press  unto  their  nuptials — till  a  band 
With  him,  The  Shadow-of-the-Sultan's-Hand, 
Fronts  them  with  challenge;  straight  a  conflict  grows-- 
The  prince  hath  claimed  the  bride — tumult  and  blows 
Bring  blood  and  death : — now  Selim  wounded  lies, 
His  bride  and  jewel  both  the  prince's  prize. 

Again  the  vision  changed ;  his  memory  fought 
Against  oblivion,  for  his  mind  was  wrought 
Still  with  his  finger-ache !     Then  she  again 
Is  with  him  on  a  wild  storm-wasted  plain. 
A  ponderous  iron  mace  he  grasps  in  hand; 
Forth  like  the  mighty  Rustem  doth  he  stand, 
Sheathed  in  full  mail;  to  a  tremendous  round 
Of  burnished  brass  his  aching  arm  is  bound ; 
A  company  of  leprous  devils  shout 
Against  him;  and  amidst  that  evil  rout, 
Two  Sheitans,  fierce  and  terrible  to  view 
As  the  White  Demon  god-like  Rustem  slew. 

But  the  sweet  lady,  she  has  naught  of  fear, — 
She  loves  him ;  to  his  wounded  hand  draws  near 
And  kisses  it ;  then  the  Sheitans  howl  in  scorn ; 
While  he,  alike  with  love  and  passion  torn, 
Rushes,  deep  cursing,  at  the  hideous  pair, 
And  closing  on  them  heaves  his  mace  in  air. 

Then  suddenly  he  woke — the  finger's  pain 

Stung  him  awake — now  in  his  stall  again, 

A  poor  brass-worker,  his  bright  vision  flown, 

Unloved,  ignoble,  scorned,  reviled,  alone. 

A  laughing,  jeering  crowd  around  him  kept, 

For  he  had  moved  and  muttered  as  he  slept; 

And  lo!  amidst  the  laughter  loud  and  long, 

The  slime-tongued  merchant,  foremost  of  the  throng, 


16  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

Faced  him:     "O  Selim,  your  brave  dreams  must  spin 

From  poppy-head,  or  some  old  potent  bin 

Of  purple  Shiraz!    Those  who  hashish  eat, 

Like  fakirs  play  thus  to  the  crowded  street 

More  strange  adventures  than  were  ever  sung 

By  great  Firdusi  of  the  silver  tongue." 

Then  pausing,  while  the  brutal  mirth  ran  high, 

And  Selim,  too  bewildered  to  reply— 

"I,  too,  can  dream,  though  scarce  of  lady's  lips, 

And  battle,  but  of  merchandise  and  ships; 

For,  while  in  sleep  I  rested  this  mid-day, 

I  dreamed  that  Selim  came  and  heard  him  say, 

'Here,  take  thy  perfume-holder — I  would  feast; 

Bring  forth  thy  bezants,  be  thy  name  increased ; 

Or  sell  to  Marco,  if  so  be  thy  will, 

To  profit  thee  and  me;  I'll  drink  my  fill 

Of  pleasure;  let  me  flourish  and  be  gay 

And  kiss  the  maid  that  I  have  won  to-day.' 

Here  sits  my  Selim  mooning  in  his  booth; 

Say,  has  my  vision  spoken  aught  but  truth?" 

Said  Selim:     "All  I  sell  is  in  your  view, 

I  have  no  perfume-holder  here  for  you." 

The  knavish  merchant  made  him  this  repeat, 

With  crafty  leading,  to  the  crowded  street. 

Yet  once  more  he  began — "But  dreams  are  sent 

From  Allah."     "Some,  not  yours" — then  Selim  bent 

His  eye  full  on  him,  "I  have  these  to  sell, 

If  so  that  you  would  purchase  it  is  well, 

You  shall  have  value  just  and  good;  I  need 

Money  to-morrow;  be  the  price  agreed. 

Or  if  my  wares  you  want  not,  pray  you  cease 

And  leave  me,  in  the  Name  of  Whom  be  Peace." 

Then  did  the  merchant  buy  of  Selim's  art 

Some  pieces,  lothful  with  his  coin  to  part; 

And  took  his  leave,  while  Selim,  richer  grown 

By  a  few  silver  coins,  did  little  own 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER  17 

For  merchandise,  save  what  discarded  lay, 
The  unfinished  lantern.    Now  he  worked  away 
Fiercely  upon  it,  that  his  wearied  thought 
Might  cease  its  whispering,  and  Time  be  brought 
To  mend  his  pace.     So,  till  the  market  gate 
Was  ready  to  be  closed,  he  lingered  late 
At  labor;  rising  then  with  anxious  care 
He  fastened  tight  the  little  shutters  where 
The  treasured  gift,  his  pride  and  solace  stood; 
Then  paced  the  unfriendly  street  in  restless  mood. 


That  night  ill-boding  dreams  without  surcease 

Assailed  his  spirit,  crucified  his  peace. 

That  one  short  night  seemed  fraught  with  danger  more 

Than  all  the  hundred  nights  that  went  before 

While  he  his  treasure  in  the  chest  had  kept 

In  that  deserted  market-place.     He  slept 

Fitfully,  briefly,  now  that  once  he  knew 

A  bad  man  lusted  for  it;  then  he  threw 

His  clothes  upon  him;  wandered  up  and  down 

The  winding  streets  and  alleys  of  the  town, 

Still  ever  passing  where  his  treasure  lay 

Behind  the  palisades  which  barred  the  way 

To  the  brass-worker's  moonlit,  still  bazaar. 

Up  raced  the  savage  watch-dogs  barking  war, 

Leaped  at  the  gate  which  held  twixt  them  and  him 

As  though  they  fain  had  torn  him  limb  from  limb. 

A  watchman  with  his  lantern,  on  his  rounds, 

Drew  near,  attracted  by  the  clamoring  hounds, 

Saw  Selim,  knew  him,  and  passed  otherwhere; 

While  he,  with  bodeful  brow,  kept  gazing  there 

Between  the  bars,  where  one  long  shadow  fell 

Across  his  shop — a  lonely  sentinel. 

Thus  aimlessly  until  the  dawn  of  day 

He  wore  the  weary  hours  of  night  away. 


18  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

Scarce  did  the  market  open  than  his  door 

He  opened  too;  then  hammered  as  before 

At  the  half-finished  lantern;  next  took  down 

The  perfume-holder,  wrapped  it,  that  the  town 

Might  not  view  what  he  carried;  then  returned 

All  quickly  home.    With  what  the  brass-ware  earned 

He  clothed  himself  in  festival  array 

As  though  it  were  for  some  high  holiday; 

Tied  with  deft  hand  the  perfume-holder,  too, 

Within  a  broidered  silk  of  creamy  hue, 

Wherein  he  placed  a  scented  billet  writ 

In  flowing  verses  when  some  rhyming  fit 

Had  seized  his  spirit  in  the  silent  night; 

This  a  caligrapher  did  fairly  write, 

With  many  a  courteous  phrase  of  love  profound; 

And  various  woven  flowers  the  border  bound. 

Behold  the  eager  Selim  as  he  stands, 

The  perfume-holder  lifted  in  his  hands, 

Apparelled  fair,  ready  to  play  his  part 

Of  service  to  the  mistress  of  his  heart. 

The  full  fine  head-cloth  of  white  hand-wove  stuff, 

Broidered  with  glimmering  gold  and  threads  of  buff, 

About  a  cone  of  yellow  camlet  winds; 

Below,  a  snow-white  linen  skull-cap  binds 

With  narrow  line  his  temples,  showing  fair 

Above  his  bronzed  face  and  coal-black  hair. 

His  head  is  straight,  symmetric,   small  of  size, 

As  of  a  steed  alert,  and  his  dark  eyes 

Are  lustrous  like  a  steed's;  an  eager  grace 

Plays  in  the  outlines  of  his  mobile  face; 

The  lips  are  proudly  set,  the  nostrils  fine, 

The  features  delicate  and  aquiline; 

His  tunic  like  the  turban  white,  each  fold 

Of  linen  with  its  waving  lines  of  gold; 

A  knife-case  in  the  silken  shawl  is  placed 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER  19 

Whose  graceful  folds  wind  round  his  slender  waist; — 
From  far  Cashmere  to  Shiraz  shall  you  see 
No  statelier,  no  braver  youth  than  he. 

The  messenger  he  gained  for  his  emprise 
Was  an  old  woman,  good,  discreet,  and  wise; 
But  ask  not  of  the  look  on  Selim's  face 
As  in  her  hands  the  love-gift  he  did  place, 
Or  while  he  watched  her  dragging  steps  depart 
To  her,  the  sovereign  of  young  Selim's  heart! 
He  stood  in  trance  while  heart  and  visage  burned, 
Waiting  until  the  ancient  dame  returned. 

O  Love,  thou  pole-star  of  all  souls — proud  dream 
Of  bliss!  dread  ruler,  passionate  and  extreme! 
In  thy  closed  hand  are  wealth,  fame,  life,  and  death; 
Self  at  thy  heart,  self-sacrifice  thy  breath; 
The  clown  thou  makest  king,  the  king. a  clown; 
Thou  turnest  cowards  brave,  and  with  thy  frown 
The  man  of  blood  is  quelled;  yea,  even  the  clutch 
Of  avarice,  groping  for  the  overmuch, 
Yields  to  thy  smile  and  to  thy  promise  sweet 
Strews  its  blood-sweated  bezants  at  thy  feet; 
But  when  a  heart  like  Selim's  owns  thy  power 
He  is  all  slave,  all  votary  from  that  hour! 

He  stood  and  waited ;  years  it  seemed  went  by ; 
The  glare  of  mid-day  paled  across  the  sky; 
The  hum  of  distant  traffic  ebbed  away, 
And  o'er  the  hills  the  flame-born  god  of  day 
Seemed  to  halt  yearningly  ere,  passed  from  sight, 
He  left  the  lovely  city  to  the  night. 
Selim  stood,  waited; — back  she  came  at  last; 
There  was  no  need  to  question  her,  he  cast 
One  look  between  her  hands  where  she  did  lift 
Trembling  to  meet  his  gaze  the  unopened  gift, 


20  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

Saying,  "The  lady  by  the  Shah's  command 
Is  wed— The  Shadow-of-the-Sultan's-Hand !" 

The  words  struck  Selim  speechless,  he  had  known 

One  joy  in  life,  a  dream,  his,  his  alone, 

And  he  had  drank  it  with  a  royal  art, 

Like  Jamshid,  till  the  wakening  stung  his  heart; 

His  head  fell  forward,  for  some  breathless  space 

The  blow  was  deathening;  ghastly  white  in  face 

He  tottered  toward  the  door  like  one  in  years, 

Borne  down  with  grief  that  scorched  the  fount  of  tears. 

Grasping  convulsively  the  brazen  jar, 

He  found  himself  again  in  the  bazaar, 

The  while  with  quivering  lips,  distractedly, 

He  muttered  texts  of  old  philosophy, 

Groping  for  consolation,  but  no  heed 

Could  give  them — ah,  how  often  in  our  need, 

When  earth  is  black  beneath  the  blackened  skies, 

They  fail,  those  deep  proud  sayings  of  the  wise! 

Yet  through  his  agony  was  woven  a  tune 
Of  words  that  clogged  his  tongue — as  'twere  some  rune 
Hammering  its  dreadful  rhythm  through  his  brain — 
And  mingled  with  his  bitter  draught  of  pain: 

"The  Cup  of  Life  with  wine  or  wormwood  flows; 
The  Leaves  of  Life  keep  falling,  and  the  Rose 
Whether  at  Babylon  or  at  Naishapur, 
Fades,  and  her  garden  mate  unheeding  blows." 

These  were  the  words  of  one  in  Selim's  town, 
Gone  long  before,  a  sage  of  wide  renown, 
Who  learned  the  mystic  law  that  moves  the  stars, 
But  yet  whose  soul,  foiled  at  life's  prison  bars, 
Testing  the  hollowness  of  earthly  state, 
Mocked  sadly  at  irrevocable  fate; 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER  21 

And,  spite  of  fame  and  power  by  learning  won, 
Re-wrote  the  olden  tale  of  Solomon, 
Chanting  the  hopeless  burden  o'er  again, 
"  'Tis  vain — the  life  we  live,  like  death,  is  vain !" 

And  Selim  turned  to  work,  because  he  felt 

His  reason  totter  as  he  slowly  spelt 

The  branding  of  the  blow  upon  his  soul; 

In  work,  unceasing  work,  he  might  control 

The  anguish  of  his  heart,  and  so — vain,  vain 

The  miserable  days  that  must  remain! 

He  had  forgot  or  had  not  cared  to  change 

His  holiday  vestments;  down  the  sun-baked  range 

Of  the  bazaar  the  whole  brass-working  tribe 

Broke  forth  upon  him  with  loud  laugh  and  gibe 

That  bit  not  like  the  fangs  of  anguish  grim, 

Yet  like  a  swarm  of  gnats  they  worried  him. 

Yearning  to  be  alone,  his  soul  was  wronged 

As  round  his  path  the  coarse  mechanics  thronged 

With  mock  obeisance,  gestures  rude,  uncouth, 

Jeering,  as  they  pursued  them  to  his  booth — 

For  little  love  they  bore  him.     "Taunt  him  well! 

Is  he  not  Selim  the  Unsociable, 

Too  proud  to  mingle  with  his  equals?"    There 

They  crowded  close  to  see  how  he  would  stare — 

For  a  dire  chance  had  happened  him:  thus  he, 

Unto  his  small  store  staggered  heavily. 

His  booth  was  plundered;  all  his  wares  were  gone! 
Far  worse — his  tools!     He  could  not  think  upon 
Their  loss.     Their  value  was  not  great,  but  dear 
Almost  as  were  his  ringers;  misery  drear 
Drifted  across  him;  only  now  remained 
The  unfinished  lantern,  but  deformed  and  stained, 
As  though  the  plunderer  held  its  value  light 
And  with  his  heel  had  crushed  it  out  of  spite. 


22  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

A  long  time  he  sat,  there  in  his  little  shop, 
Still  as  an  image  of  stone,  his  head  a-prop 
Upon  his  hands,  a  ruined  man,  bereft 
Of  all  he  owned  most  dear.    To  him  was  left, 
When  he  a  little  cleared  his  mind  to  think, 
(His  cup  filled  full,  with  madness  at  the  brink), 
Only  the  gift  returned  which  he  still  held, 
The  perfume-holder;  now  is  he  compelled 
To  purchase  bread  and  tools;  now  must  he  go 
And  from  the  merchant  buy  a  lease  of  woe. 

Blindness  and  deafness  fell  on  eye  and  ear, 
Confounding  all,  nor  grew  his  sense  more  clear 
As  he  went  stumbling  to  the  merchant's  stand, 
The  empty  pledge  of  his  false  hope  in  hand. 
The  place  of  sale  with  merchandise  was  rich ; 
Fine  armor  blazed  from  bracket,  hook,  and  niche; 
Sabres  from  Samarcand  and  costly  shawls 
From  Indian  looms  were  hanging  on  the  walls ; 
And  Orient  ivories,  carvings  from  the  Isles 
Within  their  lacquered  cabinets  stood  in  files. 
The  shelves  were  heaped  with  stuffs  of  rich  brocade ; 
Mirrors  of  steel  with  silver  frames  inlaid 
With  jewels,  glittering  daggers,  hookahs  fine, 
And  all  the  costly  wares  of  Levantine 
And  Indian  markets  crowded  all  the  space. 
As  Selim  gazed  in  wonder  round  the  place 
Coarse  faces  covered  him  with  leering  scan, 
Fit  tools  of  service  to  the  sordid  man 
Whose  slaves  they  were,  and  downcast  Selim  felt 
The  transient  courage  he  had  groped  for  melt 
Whole  from  his  heart ;  his  one  despairing  thought 
Sowed  desolation;  things  against  him  wrought 
In  foul  conspiracy.     The  merchant  now 
Began  with  lowering  and  contemptuous  brow 
To  underprice,  to  scorn,  to  villify, 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER  23 

What  he  had  been  so  eager  once  to  buy. 

Then  asking  Selim  what  his  need  might  be, 

He  told  him  he  would  take  for  surety 

The  brazen  jar  and  lend  him;  sadly  then 

Said  Selim,  "I  need   brass  and  tools  again 

To  carry  on  my  trade."     The  merchant's  smile 

Changed  to  a  cold  and  stealthy  look  of  guile 

As  forth  he  brought  a  well-assorted  pack 

Of  half-worn  tools;  but  Selim  started  back, 

Then  clutched — the  things  were  his!     Faintness  did  seize 

Upon  him,  he  felt  his  very  life-blood  freeze 

And  shrivel;  distant,  indistinct,  and  small, 

Looked  all  things  round  him ;  darkness  seemed  to  fall, 

And  deathly  coldness,  blotting  earth  and  sky, 

As  though  the  wing  of  Asrael  brushed  him  by. 

Suddenly  loomed  the  merchant's  hateful  face 

Close  o'er  his  own,  in  horrible  grimace; 

Forth  sprang  two  monstrous  hands  that  straightway  lay 

Grasp  on  his  brazen  treasure  and  away 

Bore  it  in  triumph  to  a  distant  shelf; 

Then  rushed  the  hot  fit  on — he  flung  himself 

In  rage  against  the  servants — wildly  fought — 

Until  his  mind  some  little  space  was  brought 

To  hear  men's  voices  dwindling  through  the  dim, 

From  faces  that  he  knew ;  these  said  of  him 

"Such  master  work  as  this  is,  cannot  be 

That  foolish  Selim's;"  sure  were  these  that  he 

Wrought  nothing  of  the  kind ;  they  knew  him  well 

And  all  his  work;  he  yesterday  did  tell 

He  owned  not  such  a  thing;  and  as  he  strove, 

Struggling  to  right  himself,  they  dragged  and  drove 

Him  forth,  and  nothing  but  a  whirl  was  there 

Of  dust  and  pressure,  anger,  and  despair; 

Blows  rained  upon  him ;  one  last  cruel  stroke 

Brought  blood — he  fell — and  then  his  spirit  broke! 


24  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

She  who  had  been  to  one  unhappy  heart 

The  lode-star  of  its  being,  sat  apart 

In  the  zenana's  curtained  privacy, 

A  married  captive,  never  to  be  free. 

But  o'er  The  Shadow-of-the-Sultan's-Hand 

Some  time  she  ruled ;  the  heart  she  could  command 

Of  that  fierce  fighter  in  his  pleasant  mood: 

A  second  wife  in  sovereign  solitude, 

All  gave  her  homage,  all  her  triumph  graced, 

Even  she,  the  first  wife,  whom  she  had  displaced. 

The  Shadow-of-the-Sultan's-Hand  at  first 

Was  courteous  and  devoted,  but  he  nursed 

Higher  ambition  than  in  flowers  to  bind 

His  mood  to  service  of  one  girlish  mind 

However  enchanting,  for  his  heart  was  set 

On  deeds  of  violence;  he  could  ne'er  forget 

The  feud,  the  blood-lust  that  was  his  from  birth. 

He  was  a  bold,  intrepid  son  of  earth, 

A  graceful  tiger  in  a  leash  of  silk, 

As  mild  and  pleasant  as  the  coco's  milk 

Till  call  for  action  came; — a  lion-hunt, 

In  which  he  scorned  the  danger,  chose  the  brunt, 

Or  vision  of  booty  and  some  vengeful  raid 

Into  Afghanistan,  more  often  swayed 

The  councils  of  his  heart,  than  any  charms 

He  found  within  the  circle  of  her  arms. 

And  she,  poor  lonely  discontented  dove, 

Brooded  on  this,  and  dreamed  had  she  through  love 

Been  so  far  favored  in  her  lot,  to  fall 

Unto  that  heart  where  she  was  all  in  all — 

However  lowly,  howso'er  distressed 

By  circumstance,  by  poverty  oppressed — 

Life  had  been  happier  even  with  such  an  one, 

Than  that  now  passed  with  this  proud  monarch's  son. 

She  was  unlike  the  frivolous,  tranquil  crew 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER  25 

Who  chattered  round  about  her;  often  grew 

Intolerable  to  her  vivacious  mind 

The  still  zenana — health  and  spirit  pined. 

But  came  distress  far  greater  when,  one  day, 

Returning  from  some  distant,  wide  foray 

Into  Afghanistan,  her  husband  brought 

A  captive  home,  who  now  held  all  his  thought. 

The  superseded  wife  grew  languid,  pale; 

Till,  part  by  some  new  thought  to  countervail 

Her  long  depression,  part,  that  she  consult 

A  famed  astrologer,  whose  art  occult 

In  all  that  region  was  most  noted,  they 

Who  lived  about  her  counselled  her  one  day 

She  should  a  few  leagues'  distant  journey  take, 

The  drear  monotony  of  her  life  to  break, 

Beyond   the   turquoise  hills  and   level   land 

That  fringed  the  province  with  its  shifting  sand. 

Poor  lonely  star  of  one  lone  heart!  the  love 

Her  soul  still  yearned  for  like  that  heaven  above 

The  Frankish  women  sought — she  had  not  dreamed 

That  it  had  crossed  her;  its  pale  radiance  gleamed, 

A  heavenly  vision  through  her  falling  tears, 

Fairer  as  loomed  the  vista  of  the  years! 

Bravely  again  she  took  life's  burden  up. 

Hope  flowered  once  more;  she  had  not  drained  the  cup 

Of  bitter  vintage  to  its  turbid  lees. 

She  and  her  escort  started  as  the  breeze 

Of  early  evening  swept  the  fragrant  glades 

And  waved  the  banners  o'er  long  colonnades, 

Ruffled  the  citron  blooms  and  filled  the  air 

With  cool  perfume  and  freshness  everywhere; 

Bathed  with  its  dews  the  earth  and  purged  the  sky; 

Soothed  the  hot  valleys  with  its  wandering  sigh; 

Fluttered  the  folds  of  shawls  and  turbans  loose 

And  frolicked  in  the  billowy  white  burnous; 


26  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

The  languid  city  fanned  with  healing  breath- 
Ay,  even  awoke  the  pulse  benumbed  of  death. 

Servants  and  slaves  upon  the  camels  laid 
The  tents  and  baggage;  others  were  arrayed 
To  take  the  journey,  sitting  on  the  packs 
Lashed  either  side  or  on  the  mounded  backs; 
And,  as  a  guard,  to  rearward  and  before 
Some  twenty  warriors  on  white  camels  bore 
Lances  or  muskets,  and  each  hump  around 
Bright  shawls  and  broidered  saddle-cloths  were  bound. 

From  out  the  gate  the  ordered  camels  passed; 

They  left  the  hills  behind — then  travelled  fast 

Across  the  waste,  whose  open  length  was  soon 

O'er-lanterned  by  the  lemon-colored  moon. 

The  guards  from  time  to  time  their  challenge  sent 

To  plodding  footmen  on  their  passage  bent 

Unto  the  city;  who  when  questioned  said 

"We  are  but  home-bound  miners;"  some  they  stayed, 

The  last  of  these,  some  moments;  at  demand 

Why  they  were  journeying  in  that  lonely  land, 

These  answered  humbly,  they  had  carried  out 

Into  the  distant  desert  thereabout 

A  corpse ;  'twas  of  a  man  who,  raving  mad, 

Had  died  in  prison;  this  of  what  it  had 

Of   worth   they'd   stripped;   lo,    now   but   from    their   toil, 

With  their  sad  recompense  of  wretched  spoil. 

The  captain  forward  turned  his  camel's  head 

And  told  his  lady  what  these  men  had  said. 

Naught  further  marked  their  travel;  all  next  day 
They  camped ;  at  evening  took  again  their  way ; 
And  when  at  length  arose  the  second  sun 
They  left  the  desert,  their  long  journey  done; 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER  27 

And  to  the  village  straight  their  lady  brought 
Where  dwelt  the  famed  astrologer  she  sought. 

The  gifts  bestowed,  with  courtesies  exchanged, 

A  visit  for  the  lady  was  arranged 

To  the  mysterious  man.     His  house  was  small 

And  undistinguished ;  but  within  the  wall 

Was  a  rich  room  where  he  received  his  guest; 

There  hung  a  time-piece  with  quaint  signs  impressed; 

An  astrolabe  with  Chaldic  figures  stood 

Which  told  of  wandering  stars  each  varying  mood, 

Wrought  in   Egyptian   land;  a  conjurer's  crook 

Leaned  on  a  table;  in  a  crypt-like  nook 

Lay  yellow  parchments  piled.     The"  languid  wife 

Wistfully  eyed  the  man  of  learned  life ; 

A  sage  sedate,  a  form  of  mark  and  note 

In  Iran,  where  the  beggar's  frowsy  coat 

Clothes  often  king-like  men ;  his  tall  black  cap 

And  ample  flowing  robe  of  camlet  nap 

Were  of  the  finest,  and  his  brow  and  eye 

Majestic;  for  through  gazing  on  the  sky 

And  pondering  deeply  o'er  its  mystic  lore 

He  much  of  its  sublime  expression  wore. 

Full  to  the  waist,  wide  down  the  massive  chest, 

His  sable  beard  swept  o'er  his  saffron  vest, 

Lending  grave  dignity  and  benignant  grace, 

Softening  the  stern  lines  of  his  thoughtful  face. 

There  stands  a  proverb  long  in  Eastern  ken, 

That  "no  men  should  wear  beards  but  Persian  men." 

The  sad-faced  lady  come  to  seek  his  aid, 
Took  courage  as  his  features  she  surveyed. 
Calm,  courteous,  wise,  he  seemed ;  she  told  him  all 
Was  needful  to  the  purpose;  voiced  the  thrall 
And  endless  hunger  of  her  heart,  and,  too, 
Briefly  her  history;  for  she  saw  he  knew 


28  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

Much  of  the  strivings  of  tried  souls;  yes,  he 

Was  deeply  schooled  in  the  philosophy 

And  poetry  of  Iran  and  the  East. 

He  soothed  her  famished  spirit  with  a  feast 

Of  well-culled  verses,  wrought  for  counsel  by 

Strong  hearts  to  comfort  life's  extremity; 

Down  from  the  words  of  Solomon  the  Wise 

To  the  star-gazer  poet,  who  now  lies 

In  her  own  city  in  unchanging  rest, 

The  clods  and  burial  stones  across  his  breast. 


The  words  of  counsel  past,  ere  she  her  way 

Took  thence,  he  told  her  he,  the  following  day, 

The  issue  of  his  search  ings  of  the  night 

Would  send  her.    She,  too,  watched  the  twinkling  light 

Of  stars,  that  through  the  heavens  unswerving  kept 

Their  doomful  path.     Beneath  them  mortals  slept 

As  though  no  seeds  of  fate  within  them  lay. 

Keepers  of  how  many  secrets  they 

Of  human  lives,  revealers  of  how  few, 

Though  their  eternal  witness  fronts  our  view! 

Alas,  they  did  not  to  her  soul  impart 

That  one  had  called  her  "Star-of-Selim's-Heart." 

Next  morn  in  scented  silk  the  missive  came: 
"To  the  Most  High  and  Honorable  Dame, 
Moon  to  the  Shadotv-of-the-Sultan's-Hand, 
Fairest  of  all  the  fair  of  Persian  land! 
In  name  of  Allah  whom  the  faithful  call 
The  Merciful,  Victorious,  Chief  of  All: 
The  Stars,  O  Lady,  speak  the  truth,  tho'  man 
Not  always  may  their  mystic  answer  scan; 
Thrice  have  I  read  to-night  the  face  of  Heaven, 
And  thrice  to  me  this  answer  hath  been  given, 
These  silent  words  of  fate  and  mystery : 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER  29 

'A  FLIGHT  OF  RAVENS!' 

May  it  rest  with  thee, 
O  Lady,  to  interpret  them  aright, 
And  may  they  throw  upon  thy  darkness  light 
According  to  thy  heart;  and  may  the  peace 
Of  Allah,  who  alone  gives  souls  increase, 
Be  shown  to  Thee.     This  is  the  prayer  devout 
Of  him,  the  unworthiest  of  thy  servants;  doubt 
Not  He  will  send  thee  grace. 

Written  by  the  hand 
Of  Hassan  of  the  Astrolabe,  to  command." 

She,  bearing  these  words  with  her,  now  began 
Her  homeward  journey,  pondering;  still  ran 
Her  thoughts  along  one  line;  her  mind  was  bent 
Upon  the  answer  of  the  stars,  that  went 
Ever  before  her  like  a  vision  blest, 
Guiding  her  to  her  solace  and  her  quest. 

It  was  the  chill  and  silent  time  of  night 
Before  the  rose-crowned,  pearly-vestured  Light 
Loops  joyance  round  the  world;  mysterious  hour, 
When  Azrael  comes  with  all  his  awful  power 
To  loose  the  souls  of  men  and  women  old 
From  their  worn  bodies,  and  in  numbing  fold 
The  fluttering  spirit  wraps  and  bears  away 
To  realms  of  utter  midnight  or  of  day. 

The  camel-train  paced  slowly;  rose  the  dust 
As  each  broad  foot  into  the  sand  was  thrust, 
And  fell  again  full  quickly,  beaten  down 
By  the  damp  air;  a  distant  eastward  frown 
Against  the  sky  betokened  hills;  the  sun 
Beyond  the  shade-land  soon  prepared  to  run 
His  course;  the  watchful  guards  from  time  to  time 
Turned  in  their  saddles  to  behold  him  climb 


30  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

The  hill-tops;  o'er  the  desert's  lonely  gray 
Paling  for  leagues  beyond,  the  film  of  day 
Pressed  a  faint  outline;   an  uneven  spur, 
Dimly  defined  against  the  mist-like  blur, 
Breaking  the  outline,  showed  them  Naishapur. 

As  the  round  sun  flamed  o'er  the  hills  again, 
Startled  by  that  or  by  the  camel-train, 
A  clamorous  flight  of  birds  upon  one  hand 
Trailed  from  some  object  on  the  distant  sand. 
The   lady,   resting   in   uneasy  sleep, 
Awoke  as  o'er  her  swished  the  bustling  sweep 
Of  wings,  and  from  her  litter  watched  them  float, 
Ominous  and  black,  against  the  heaven  remote, 
New-lighted  by  the  half-way  risen  sun, 
Which  o'er  the  pallid  sky  his  splendor  spun. 
Flush  to  her  mind,  as  from  the  written  page, 
There  rushed  the  words  of  the  star-gazing  sage, — 
"A  flight  of  ravens;"  straight  she  waved  her  hand 
And  gave  the  captain  of  the  train  command 
She  must  at  once  be  carried  to  the  place 
Whence  rose  the  birds  of  omen ;  with  ill  grace 
He  turned  to  do  her  will,  for  now  would  day 
The  naked  desert  scourge  with  burning  ray. 
The  slow  procession  wheeled,  the  distance  spanned,- 
And  lo,  a  skeleton  bleaching  on  the  sand! 

"O  fairest  lady,"  cried  the  chief  in  tones 

Sore  vext,  "Let  Allah  hear  me;  'tis  but  bones 

Of  some  wayfarer,  slain  or  gone  astray 

Here  in  the  desert;  others  for  a  prey 

Than  these  same  birds  have  found  him;  doth  abide 

With  him  no  coin,  nor  weapon  at  his  side." 

"In  name  of  Allah,  Merciful  and  Just, 

Some  of  you  men  dismount  and  straightway  thrust 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER  31 

Around  him ;  search  each  bit  of  cloth  and  bone 
And  see  if  aught  about  him  may  be  known." 

Unwillingly,  and  cursing  the  delay 
Among  themselves,   they  slowly  did  obey. 
They  lifted  with  their  spears  each  ragged  clout, 
And  with  their  muskets  shoved  the  bones  about. 

"Nothing,  fair  lady,  nothing,"  cried  the  chief, 

Climbing  across  his  saddle  with  relief; 

Then  set  the  train  in  motion,  well  content 

To  quit  their  tarrying.     Soon  thereafter  went 

Unto  the  litter  one  who  lingered  late. 

No  word  he  said,  but  with  a  smile  sedate 

Handed  his  lady  a  sere,  tiny  thing 

Of  white  and  yellow  bone.     Round  it  a  ring 

Or  shred  of  brass,  tight-twisted,  bore  along 

Each  edge,  at  intervals,  impression  strong, 

Irregular,  a  little  whorl,  which  she 

Caught  at  as  from  the  man  of  mystery. 

She  placed  it  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand 

And  gazed  and  gazed,  till  in  the  slender  band 

Of  brass  she  found  the  token — yes,  the  day 

That  she  on  Selim's  finger  in  her  play 

Had  twisted   it!     again  the  constant  gaze 

Which  searched  her  footsteps  through  the  market  ways; 

Again  the  dream,  the  hope,  the  flushed  surprise 

That   starred   with    love   those   dark    and   thoughtful   eyes. 

To  this,  then,  he  had  come!    Ay,  well, — alas! 
She  knew  the  tiny  pattern  on  the  brass, 
And  all  in  tears  she  scanned  it;  he  had  said, 
She  now  remembered — in  his  little  shed — 
He,  poor  dead  Selim,  her  lone  worshipper, — 
The  tool  that  made  it,  save  on  gift  for  her, 
Should  not  be  used;  yes,  he  whose  bones  now  lie 


32  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

Strewing  the  sand,  beneath  the  pitiless  sky, 

All  save  this  one,  this  small  ringed  finger  bone, 

Relic  of  sacred  love,  hers,  hers  alone! 

The  one  cold  token  of  the  constant  flame 

That  burned  within  his  breast.     O  hour  of  shame! 

This  dry  white  bone  reproached  her!    Witness  now 

Poor  dumb  starved  heart  the  fervor  of  her  vow! 

Witness  her  tears  and  kisses  and  her  head 

Bent  o'er  this  voiceless  pleader  for  the  dead, 

Laid  now  upon  her  soft  grief-burdened  breast, 

There,  while  that  heart  should  beat  with  life,  to  rest. 

The  lusty  sun  stared  fiercely,  free  and  high, 

When  they  had  reached  the  city.     The  blue  sky 

Shone  dazzling  clear,  save  where  some  fine-combed  clouds 

Straggled  across ;  as  they  were  souls  in  shrouds 

Speeding  to  heaven;  or  travellers  single-file, 

Moving  apart,  as  tho  in  fear  of  guile, 

Wrapping  their  parching  bodies  from  the  glare 

And  dusty  highway.     The  zenana's  air 

Unto  The  Star-of-Selim's-Heart  was  cool 

And  comforting,  as,  fresh  from  out  the  pool 

Of  perfumed  water  on  the  rich  divan 

She  lay,  and  over  her  waved  an  Indian  fan 

Held  by  a  favorite  maid.     The  silken  door 

Opened,  two  little  girls  between  them  bore 

A  shrouded  present,  which  by  high  command, 

Her  lord's,  The  Shadow-of-the-Sultan's-Hand, 

On  her  return  be  given  her.     Listlessly 

She  loosed  the  first  silk  wrappings — paused — for  she 

Saw  surely  'twas  some  growth  of  royal  art, 

Even  such  a  love-work  as  some  loyal  heart 

Like  Selim's  might  have  pledged  her.     She  unwound 

The  silk  with  wakened  care,  in  thought  profound. 

Oh,  miracle  of  genius  proud  and  pure! 

He  promised  her  such  a  gift ;  alas !  how  poor 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER  33 

The  man  who  loved  her  was;  she  had  not  cared 
For  him  or  his — ah,  heaven,  had  he  been  spared! 
Selim's  own  self  this  wonder  might  have  wrought — 
Selim's  sweet  self,  had  he  not  come  to  naught. 
It  wronged,  insulted  him;  for  daily  need 
Had  bound  that  hand  from  such  a  lavish  deed. 
Faint  murmurings  were  thronging  in  her  ears; 
She  watched  it  glimmering  through  her  mist  of  tears; 
Seen  midst  them,  the  entrancing,  matchless  thing 
Loomed  indistinct,  gigantic,  wavering. 

As  her  tears  fell  she  wiped  them  fast  away ; 

Then  seeing  more  clearly,  something  bade  her  lay 

Grasp  on  the  brazen  vessel,  while  her  gaze 

Grew  fixed,  grew  all  excitement,  all  amaze; 

Then  'gainst  her  breast  she  strained  it  with  a  sob; 

And  as  her  heart,  rallying  with  mighty  throb, 

Shook  deep  her  being  all  her  loosened  hair 

Enshrined  the  perfume-holder  like  a  prayer. 

There — there — deep-graved  the  proof  of  matchless  love! 

Each  scrolled  and  burnished  strip  of  brass  above, 

Upon  each  ornamental  fillet's  round, 

The  same  fine-patterned  tiny  whorl  was  found! 

The  same  with  which  his  finger,  once,  she  bruised 

And  fastened — from  the  die  herself  had  used! 

Yes,  Selim's  gift  had  come  to  her — his  love 
Had  found  her  after  death ;  ay,  there  above, 
Even  in  the  distant  realms  of  bliss,  new  cheer 
Must  come  to  him;  had  she  not  grown  more  near 
Unto  his  spirit  though  his  outcast  bones 
Lay  whitening  on  the  desert's  sands  and  stones — 
All  save  this  finger  token?     But  there — look! 
Graved  on  the  brass  his  words,  the  open  book 
Of  Selim's  love — the  words  he  never  said 
In  life — his  faithful  message  from  the  dead! 


34  THE  PERFUME-HOLDER 

"Dove  of  my  soul,  thou  white  and  wondrous  dove, 
My  Heaven  is  with  thee;  nor  did  Allah's  love 
Ever  send  Peri  unto  suffering  earth 
Fair  as  thou  art,  O  lily  of  fragrant  birth! 
Star  of  love's  sky,  rise  pure  and  dwell  apart 
To  sanctity  the  flower-land  of  my  heart. 
Behold  the  first  fruits  of  my  pledge  to  thee; 
Queen  of  my  dreams,  be  merciful  to  me" 


That  evening,  from  the  spot  the  camel-train 

Had  halted  on  when  day  broke  o'er  the  plain, 

Saw  the  same  sun,  soft-barred  with  roseate  streaks, 

Dying  away  between  the  western  peaks; 

And  as  he /sank  from  view  the  low  sweet  breath 

Of  twilight  sighed  above  the  day-god's  death ; 

But  swelled  at  night  and  through  the  star-lit  space 

A  requiem  swayed  across  the  desert's  face; 

And  as  it  wailed  its  dreary,  weird  refrain 

Along  the  hills  and  o'er  the  barren  plain, 

Cast  heavy  handfuls  of  soft  sand  where  lay 

A  dead  man's  bones — and  when  the  eye  of  day 

Searched  for  them,  lo,  the  desert  held  its  trust, 

Folded   forever  in  its  shroud   of  dust. 


And  in  the  night  that  breeze  with  plaintive  sigh 
Breathed  through  the  lonely  latticed  turret  high 
That  pinnacled  a  palace;  wandering  there, 
Entered  a  dim-lit  chamber,  strewing  rare 
Spiced  odors  forth  along  the  midnight  air 
From  a  brass  perfume-holder — such  sweet  breath 
As  rises  scarcely  at  a  monarch's  death. 

And  in  that  silence  a  pale,  tearful-eyed 
Woman  inhaled  the  perfume — watched  it  glide 


THE  PERFUME-HOLDER  35 

Toward  the  desert;  on  her  heaving  breast 
One  trembling  hand  she  laid;  beneath  it  pressed 
A  silken  case,  which  hid  a  little  bone 
And  shred  of  hammered  brass     .     .     . 

No  more  is  known. 


MAJOR  POEMS 


HYMN   TO    THE    SPIRIT   OF    BEAUTY 

MAGNET  of  the  exploring  mind, 
Joy  of  nature  unconfmed, 
Spirit  of   the   ideal,    rare 
Artist  working  everywhere, 
Posting  on  thy  restless  pinion 
O'er  thy  imperial   dominion, 
Painting  all  the  turning  year 
An  enswathed  planetsphere; 
Child  of  Fancy  and  Delight, 
Joyous,  e'er  enchanting  sprite, — 
Thou  alone  hast  all  completeness; 
Perfect   thou  in  strength   and  sweetness; 
Ere  blind  Saturn  held  commission 
Thou  hadst  heavenly  manumission, 
Ere  grey  wrinkled  Time  was  young 
Jove  with  music  tipped  thy  tongue, 
And  so  dowered  thee  with  charms 
That  he  thrilled  with  love's  alarms; 
All  enamoured  of  thy  face 
Straightway  clasped  thee  in  embrace 
And  the  keys  of  Heaven  and  Hell 
Yielded   to   thy   potent  spell. 
Hebe  was  thy  handmaid,  she 
Taught  thee  grace  and  favor  free; 
Told  thee  many  a  mystic  story 
Of  Olympus'  olden  glory, 
Ere  the  strife  in  Heaven  began, 
Or  ere  Earth's  first  eons  ran. 
Lusty  Bacchus  owned  thy  sway; 
39 


40      HYMN  TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  BEAUTY 

At  thy  feet  his  thyrsus  lay; 

Other  loves  he  heeded  not, 

Ariadne  was  forgot, 

Turned  thy  votary  and  for  thee 

Herded  sheep  in  Arcady. 

Brawling  Mars  would  pine  and  sigh 

For  one  glance  of  thy  bright  eye; 

He  would  lay  his  helmet  down 

At  thy  slightest  nod  or  frown; 

He  would  bind  his  flowing  locks 

With  the  blue  fond-lovers  phlox, 

But  to  lend  some  passing  grace 

To  his  harsh  forbidding  face. 

He  would  call  thee  "dear"  and   "sweet," 

Sitting  suppliant   at  thy  feet. 

Thou  couldst  thrill  his  heart  with  fear 

For  thy  distaff  claimdst  his  spear; 

Made  thy  mirror  of  his  shield, 

Once  the  torment  of  the  field, 

And  his  blood-dewed  laurel  bough 

Rested  on  thy  mocking  brow. 

Thou  has  quaffed  the  mountain  lymphs 

Oft  amidst  Diana's  nymphs 

When  the  rosy  fingered  Dawn 

Hath  the  day  bolts  fairly  drawn 

For  the  safforn  vestured  East, 

Ushering  Nature's  great  high  priest, 

When  he  comes  in  golden  state 

Thru  his  azure  arched  gate. 

Oft  in  some  sequestered  nook, 

Gazing  idly  on  a  brook, 

Thee  the  rustic  Pan  hath  seen 

Full  length  on  a  bank  of  green. 

Thy  blown  robes  and  floating  hair 

Oft  thru  fields  and  uplands  fair 

He  would  glimpse  as  on  thy  way 


HYMN  TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  BEAUTY      41 

Thou  wouldst  with  the  shadows  play, 

And   his  silent  pipe  would   slip 

From  his  curved,  half-smiling  lip. 

He  would  leave  the  charmed  flocks 

Clipping  still  their  verdured  rocks, 

Follow  thee  thru  forest  lanes 

Down   which   drifted   sunshine  strains 

In  a  mist  of  filtered  light 

Thru  the  dense   umbrageous  night 

To  the  shy  nymph's  bathing  place, — 

Where  the  caverned  rocks  embrace 

One  of  Nature's  hidden  nooks; 

Where  the  mild  midsummer  brooks 

Loiter,  loth  to  leave,  and  hide 

Neath   the  banks   their   purling   tide, 

And  the  curtaining  waters  fall 

Foaming   o'er   the   moss-hung  wall. 

Still  his  soul  within  him  burned, — 

When   the   leaves   were   backward   turned 

Of  the  poplars  tall  and  fair, 

Knew  that  thou  wert  passing  there, 

Caught  the  fairy  fantasy 

Of  thy  fluttering  drapery; 

And   howe'er  he  still  pursued, 

And  howe'er  thy  favor  wooed, 

Still  thy  laughter  rippled  back 

All  along  thy  shining  track; 

Still  thy  fairness  lured  him  on 

Till  he  some  slight  favor  won; 

Flower  or  love  wreath  from  thy  hair, 

Or  a  kiss  thrown  on  the  air, 

Or  a  glance  of  roguish  guile, 

Or  a  courtesy  or  a  smile. 

Lovely  sprite,  ethereal  elf, 
Thou  art  Concord's  second  self, 


42      HYMN  TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  BEAUTY 

Thou  art  Melody's  mateless  voice, 
Thou  art  Nature's  dateless  choice, 
Thou  art  Purity's  inner  glow, 
Thou  art  Culture's  outward  show; 
Thou  appearest   to   the   seer 
Where  no  earth-born  forms  are  near, 
And    thou   breathest   upon   his   thought 
Till  it  glories,  star-enwrought, 
Thru  the  unmeasured  fields  of  space 
To   the   heavens  high   dwelling-place, 
Till  unnumbered  spheres  it  sees 
Hung  in  crystal  galaxies. 

Thou,  queen  mother  of  the  Loves, 
In  thy  pearl  car  drawn  by  doves, 
Rulest  o'er  the  human  heart 
With  an  ever  alluring  art; 
Never  granting  full  fruition 
To  its  ideal  or  ambition; 
Still  compelling  it  to  turn 
Toward   a  lovelier  something,   turn 
On  the  axis  of  its  thought, 
Seeking  that  still  vainly  sought, 
Avatar   of   blissful   life, 
Uncontaminate  of  strife. 

All  unconscious  of  thy  wile, 
Careless  youth,  thou  dost  beguile ; 
Following  up  thy  conquest  won 
Each   new-born,   diurnal   sun, 
Till  thou   flash  on  him   surprise 
Thru  some  sweet-faced  maiden's  eyes; 
With    intoxicating   kisses 
Luring  him  to  a  heaven  of  blisses, 
To  the  Elysian  Fields  of  love, 
Where  the  skies  are  gold  above; 


HYMN  TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  BEAUTY       43 

Where  the  flowerets  never  fade; 

Where  no  upas  casts  its  shade 

'Gainst  the  sun-down  tinted  sky; 

Where  the  dew  is  never  dry 

On  the  petals  of  the  rose; 

Where  in  chiming  silver  flows 

The  brook,  unbound  by  wintry  frost, 

And  by  dog-star  drouths  uncrossed; 

Where  the  perfume  laden  breeze 

Wafted  from  the  Hesperides 

Blends  its  murmuring  with  the  bees; — 

There  his   nightly  dreams  are  fair 

As   the   soft   blue-violet   air, 

Till  with  golden  locks  outspread 

Titan  lifts  his  morning  head 

And  night's  minions  flee   away 

From  the  victor  crowned  Day. 

But  a  fuller  bliss  hath  grown 

Than  these  earth-born  forms  have  known ; 

Thou  hast  still  a  nobler  part, 

Mistress  of  the  poet's  heart! 

He  shall  limn  thee  as  thou  dost  stand 

Fresh  and   fair   from  God's  own  hand, 

And   the  fadeless   aureole  spread 

Of  rapt  sainthood  round  thy  head ; 

He,   thy  champion,  aye  hath  worn 

Thy  bright  favors,  proudly  torn 

Thru  the  hard  won,  fateful  day, 

Trophies  from  the  field  away. 

He  hath  been  thy  high-priest,  he 

Hath  adorned,  enfranchised  thee, 

And  hath  offered   up  his  heart 

On  the  fire  wave  of  his  art; 

He   will   still    contented   dwell 

Thou  sole   inmate  of  the  cell 


44       HYMN  TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  BEAUTY 

Of  his  dream  life,  and  hath  borne 
Oft  for  thee  the  cross  of  scorn. 
As  I  too  have  borne  for  thee 
Scorn  and  bitter  mockery; 
As   thou,   too,  hast  dwelt  apart 
In  the  fastness  of  my  heart, 
And  hast  whispered  to  mine  ear 
Words  which  none  beside  may  hear. 
Mistress  of  my  earliest   choice 
Of  the  sylphlike  form  and  voice, 
O'er  me  still  thy  glamor  throw, — 
Spirit,  all  to  thee  I  owe! 


ASTROPHEL 

(In  memory  of  Benjamin  Lombard,  died  June,  1915) 

I    HAVE  loved  life — I  have  loved  life  too  well! 
For  sorrow  dies  not,  yearning  will  not  cease; 
I   have  loved  life,   the   life  of  Astrophel, 
Of  Astrophel,  who  lieth  now  at  peace; 
Peace  from  world  care  and  wasting  ills  increase; 
Free  from  Earth's  galling  ill  requited  toil ; 

One  with  the  thousand  stars  of  artist  Greece; 
Reprieved  from  niggard  Fortune's  cumbering  moil, 
And  chill  despondent  doubts  that  did  his  genius  foil. 

I  scarce  can  sense  he  has  renounced  our  life; — 

Spring  lingers  with  her  trophies;  birds  and  trees 
And  bourgeoning  flowers  are  with  earth-rapture  rife, 

Their  sentient  perfumes  load  the  rhythmed  breeze. 

My  heart  should  hold  in  tune  with  all  of  these; 
It  should   with   that  warm   ravishment  accord; 

Why  drain  this  bitter  potion  to  the  lees 
While   he   triumphant  stands  with   spirits  adored, 
Elect  of  earth  and  Heaven  who  waiteth  on  the  Lord? 

Philosophy,  wise  mentor,  grant  me  balm! 

Alas,   I  gain  small  comfort  from  your  book; 
I  seem  as  life  shows  round  me,  careless,  calm; 

I  would  not  aught  should  on  my  sorrow  look. 

Even  by  my  dearest  friends  I   am  mistook; 
Something  has  gone  from  day  I  know  not  where; 

And  yet  the  sunbeam  flickers  on  the  brook; 

45 


46  ASTROPHEL 

Music  and  happy  voices  thrill  the  air, 

And  summer  dawns  in  pride  and  life  blooms  lush  and  fair. 

Why  here  have  chosen,  Death?  there  are  enough 

Of  passing  souls  to  glut  thy  greedy  hand; 
Blood  streams  in  torrents,  rivers,  and   the  stuff 

Of  carnage  reeks  to  Heaven  from  every  land; 

On  every  side  thy  sable  plumes  are  fanned; 
The  beautiful,  the  gifted,  brave  go  down 

Daily   to  that  mysterious,  shadowed  strand 
That  lies  beyond  the  country-side  and  town; 
That  hides  so  much  of  love,  dream,  promise,  hope,  renown. 

They  all  are  thine — that  press  of  stagnant  souls 

Alien  to  claim  on  Heaven ;  knaves,  dolts  and  fools 
Cumbering  the  earth ;  blind,  burrowing  money  moles ; 

Rakes  lingering  on  their  late  repentance  stools; 

There  fails  no  plethora  of  men  whose  rules 
Of  life  outbrave  the  tiger  and  the  pike; 

Untamed    by   pity    and    untaught    by    schools 
Of  love  or  duty;  each   and   all   alike 
Preying  on  weakened  life  and  seeking  where  to  strike. 

Then  to  choose  him — the  purity  of  whose  life 

Was  rainbowed,  Ariel  rescued  from  the  pine; 
Whose  spirit  soared  above  this  world  of  strife 

Even  as  a  falcon   loosened   from  its  line; 

Who  quaffed  all  beauty  as  a  youth  drains  wine; 
Thirsted  for  knowledge  as  a  saint  for  God; 

Whose  soul  was  keyed  to  harmonies  divine, 
Climbing  those  minstrel  marches  few  have  trod, 
Plucking  rare  flowers  of  song  from  that  Olympian  sod. 

I  mourn  for  Astrophel — ah,  none  is  left 
To  take  his  place,  the  Muse's  darling  son! 


ASTROPHEL  47 

The  world  unknowing  him,  is  still  bereft 

Of  all  the  dazzling  themes  he  might  have  done. 
Yet  he  his  finished  course  has  proudly  run, 

Nor  truckled  to  a  crass,  material  time; 

Yes,  he  to  valorous  laurelled  heights  had  won 

In  the  glad  workday  of  his  youthful  prime: — 

Now  naught  remains  except  to  grace  his  corse  with  rhyme. 

For  he  loved  books  and  could  with  practiced  pen 

Clothe  balanced  thought  in  lucid  shining  phrase; 
The  mounts  of  song  were  captured  in  his  ken 

From   Palestrina  to  these  full-sounding  days; 

While  his  own  lyre  was  strung  to  magic  lays 
Such  as  lend  wings  to  man ;  like  him  who  smote 

Sublime  the  storied  Lied,  his  genius  sways 
The  variant  turns  of  the  vibrating  note, 
Till  thru  the  ethereal  field  those  heaven-tuned  echoes  float. 

And  they  are  of  the  heritage  of  man's  soul; 

Part  of  the  temple  structure  of  that  art 
Which  o'er  unnamed  emotion  takes  control, 

The  spirit  sailing  on  without  a  chart; 

He  held  no  claim  or  dealing  with  the  mart 
That  over  lesser  natures  makes   demand ; 

Love,   Pathos,  Aspiration,  played   their  part; 
Those  proud  familiars  came  at  his  command, 
Which  he  controlled  with  strenuous  soul  and  plastic  hand. 

He  lived  for  art — for  more  he  lived  to  me. 

I  scarce  can  think  that  he  has  passed  beyond; 
The  genial  tone,  the  voiced  thought  high  and  free, 

The  aeolian  life  of  which  all  hearts  were  fond, 

The  gentle  presence,  drew  me  with  a  bond 
Time  cannot  alter,  circumstance  replace; 

That  natural  dignity  his  soul  had  donned 


48  ASTROPHEL 

Stood  lightened  by  its  loveliness  and  grace, 

With  Mozart's  winning  smile  and  clean  cut  cameo  face. 

Even  now  I  see  him — he  comes  thru  the  door 

With  hat  in  hand  and  book  beneath  his  arm; 
The  lithe,  light  tread  on  the  unthinking  floor, 

The   room   all   brightened, — breathing   forth   his  charm; 

He  seemed  a  creature  no  ill  thing  could  harm; 
So  kind,  so  courteous,  loving,   debonaire; 

I  heard  no  threatening  of  that  dire  alarm 
That  could  dissolve  such  sweetness  into  air; 
No  thought  but  Heaven  to  me  would  still  that  largesse  spare. 

And  yet — and  yet — who  knows,  ah  me,  who  knows! 

It  must  be  as  the  soldier  falls  to-day, 
Striking  for  country,  home, — whose  life  blood  flows 

Across  the  front  of  his  unconscious  clay, — 

Spurning  rich  life  that  Freedom  shall  make  way, — 
So  has  he  fought  his  fight  and  held  his  stand 

On  art,  his  art,  which  shall  at  last  bear  sway; 
And  that  transcendent  song  that  he  had   planned 
Survive,  a  torso  prized,  wrought  by  a  master's  hand. 

If   so,   no   traffic  hold   with   vain    regret; 

Let  us  cheer  Sorrow  from  our  doors ;  still  burn 
The  incense  of  our  love,  and  proudly  set 

Remembrance  high  with  chant  and  flowering  urn; 

He  left  his  heart  behind  him,  let  us  turn 
To  those  brave  melodies  struck  for  after  time; — 

The  deer  has  not  more  passion  for  the  fern 
Than  that  fine  gallant  soul  for  the  sublime; 
Now,  now,  perchance,  enthralled  by  some  celestial  chime. 

Seek  him  not  then,  O  Kin-folk,  in  the  grave! 
That  which  you  wept  escaped,  it  is  not  there; 


ASTROPHEL  49 

Invoke  his  song,   it   is  his  message  brave, 

His  best  of  earth  which  we  who  loved  him  share. 
In   that   his   immortality   shines   fair; 

That  is  his  aureole,  'tis  his  heavenly  crown; 

That  is  his  trust  to  earth  which  Time  shall  spare; 

Death  threats  not  that,  howe'er  on  all  he  frown; 

Abashed  before  a  claim  his  power  may  not  put  down. 

My  plaint  fails  earth-bound — but  the  end  is  peace. 

The  clouds  disperse,  the  showers  of  grief  are  past ; 
The  tears,  the  sighs,  the  vain  regrets  shall  cease, 

The  treasured  memories  shine,  we  hold  them  fast; 

Doubt  and  despondency  behind  are  cast; 
For  Astrophel  inhabiteth  his  star, 

The  star  of  immortality ;  at  last 
The  beam  breaks  o'er  us  from  that  realm  afar, 
Which  Fate  nor  Death  may  shock,  nor  Time  nor  Custom 
mar. 


ODE   TO    SPRING 

BLITHE  Flora,  goddess  of  the  opening  year, 
Queen  of  the  birth  of  love  and  warm  desire 
Youngest  of  sovereigns  of  this  variant  sphere, 
Thou  who  had'st  Pan  for  brother,  Jove  for  sire, 
Fairest  earth   patron  of   the  heavenly  choir, 
Blest  harbinger  of  plenty  and  increase, 

Bright  incense-bringer,  vestal  of  the  fire, 
Priestess  of  life  and  joyance,  beauty,  peace, 
Bearing  within  thy  robes  the  balm  for  cares  surcease; — 

Thou,  the  adored  of  Earth,  boon  Nature's  hope; 

Joy  of  the  winter  prisoned  and  winter  marred; 
Who  settest  all  hearts  aflame,  giv'st  prescience  scope, 

Wings  to  the  venturous  spirit,  to  the  bard 

His  hippogriff  of  Fancy;  guide  and  guard 
Of  every  live  thing  that  exalts  thy  reign; 

Urging  thy  forest  children,  stripped  and  scarred, 
To  cloak  their  naked  limbs  with  leaves  again  ; 
Coaxing  Earth's  timid  flowers  to  smile  o'er  hill  and  plain  ;- 

Mother  of  all  winged  things,  what  time  the  brooks 

Unloose  themselves  from  Winter's  hampering  chain; 
Gathering  in  windy  pines  the  clamorous  rooks, 

And  scattering  balms  and  scents  o'er  hill  and   plain; 

Who  dost  the  budding  emerald  life  sustain 
To  its  full  flower  in  Summer's  lordly  pride, 

And  o'er  their  tender  lives  thy  tents  maintain 
Of  clouds  and  rains,  and  spreadest  far  and  wide 
Thy  spangled  web  of  dews  across  the  country-side; — 

So 


ODE  TO  SPRING  51 

Thou  who  athwart  the  winter-conquered  earth, 

The  ice-bound  streams,  the  desolated  land, 
Sweep 'st  on  thy  air-borne  car,  with  kindly  mirth 

Thy  fragrant  largesse  scattering  on  each  hand; 

Blessing  the  Earth's  and  Sun's  new  marriage  band; 
Coursing  the  fiends  of  Winter  to  their  lairs; 

Who,  like  the  Virgin  Mother  still  dost  stand 
Agent  of  Resurrection,  Queen  of  Prayers; — 
List  him  who  greets  thy  reign  and  all  thy  bounty  shares! 

Hearken  to  him  who  loved  thee  while  a  boy, 

Ay,  with  intensest  passion,  and  who  keeps 
The  memories  ever  of  that  childhood  joy 

Thru  manhood's  cares,  decline,  and  barren  deeps; 

Yea,  even  to-day  his  spirit  sings  and  leaps 
To  view  thy  breath  awakening  the  trees  ; 

To  hear  thy  forces  mustering,  as  sweeps 
Thy  airy  chariot  o'er  the  woods  and  leas, 
With  all  the  South  in  train  and  murmuring  down  the  breeze. 

Long  has  the  Mother  waited — deep,  close  down 

Within  her  breast  she  hides  her  children  frail; 
Above  their  sentient  germs  she  spreads  her  gown 

Of  leaves  to  fence  them  from  the  frost  and  gale. 

The  patient  Fosterer  knows  thou  wilt  not  fail; 
She  wards  with  care  her  weaklings  all  from  scath ; 

Let  Winter  do  his  worst,  she  will  not  quail, 
Although  he  lash  her  in  his  churlish  wrath 
And  o'er  her  prostrate  pride  urge  his  unpitying  path. 

Oh,  how  her  heart  rejoices  when  thy  horn 

Is  wound  by  boisterous  March  across  the  hills, 

While  wavering  Winter,  baffled  and  outworn, 
Withdraws  from  his  wide  theatre  of  ills; 
While  all  his  ensigns,  hanging  from  the  sills, 


52  ODE  TO  SPRING 

Are  by  thy  breath  blown  forth  in  clouds  and  rain 

To  speed  thy  triumph,  to  feed  full  the  rills 
Which,  now  enfranchised,  leap  down  hill  and  plain 
And  shout  their  joyous  news  to  river,  lake,  and  main. 


Within  the  star-pranked  palace  of  the  skies, 

The  young  moon  on  thy  arm,  thou  lov'st  to  rest, 
While  the  warm  South-Wind  on  thy  mandate  flies 

Urging  thy  rule  to  North  and  East  and  West; 

While  Winter's  legions,  smitten  and  sorely  pressed, 
Shriek  through  each  mountain  pass  in  forced  retreat; 

While   from   Earth's  late  mute,   desolated   breast 
Rise  sounds  of  life  and  joy  and  odors  sweet, 
Distilled  by  Heaven's  own  dew  and  borne  by  zephyrs'  feet. 

Sweet  April,  child  of  sunshine  and  of  tears, 

Attends  thee  with  her  violets;  jocund  May 
Comes  ever  smiling  through  the  cycled  years, 

Her  daisies  and  her  hawthorn  flowers  to  lay 

Upon  thine  altar;  regal  June,  alway 
Garlands  thy  brow  with  roses  till  thy  child, 

Gay,  wanton  Summer,  flaunts  her  sumptuous  way 
O'er  hill  and  holt,  o'er  every  field  and  wild, 
And  vainly  would  outcharm  the  hearts  by  thee  beguiled. 

Fair,  faithful  harbinger  of  fruitful  life, 

What  were  this  Earth  deprived  thee?    What  were  noon 
Without  the  dawning?    Winter's  toil  and  strife 

How  borne  without  the  promise  of  thy  boon? 

Thy  clouds,  thy  rains,  thy  blooms,  the  bubbling  rune 
Of  brooks,  the  diapason  of  the  trees, 

The  hum  of  insect  life,  the  varied  tune 
Of  birds,  the  buzzing  of  the  questing  bees, 
And  all  the  pageantry  of  life  thou  lead'st  across  the  leas. 


ODE  TO  SPRING  53 

And  he  whose  soul  was  to  thy  flowers  allied, 

Sweet  minstrel,  with  thy  promise  in  his  heart; 
In  his  own  Spring,  in  his  rapt  dream  and  pride 

Of  genius  struck  by  Death's  untimely  dart; 

Lover  of  books  and  beauty  and  that  art 
To  which  he  gave  his  best,  now  lieth  low, 

Even  as  thyself  wilt  lie — the  tears  that  start 
Are  for  no  vulgar  earth ;  no  pomp  or  show 
Of  kings  might  honor  him  whose  worth  I  once  did  know. 

'Twere  fitting  that  his  dream  should  close  with  thine, 

Like  Keats's,  and  the  fevered  heart  which  yearned 
To  sound  the  depths  of  that  emotioned  sea 

Of  rhythm,  that  surging  thru  his  spirit  burned, — 

Or  when,  like  Orpheus,  his  fancy  turned 
To  magic  measures,  charming  old  and  young, 

Giving  in  plenteous  store  the  love  he  earned 
Back  to  those  friends  for  whose  delight  he  sung, — 
Even  now  cut  down  when  Fame  had  her  first  chaplet  flung. 

Let  me,  too,  pass  as  he  did,  in  thy  time; 

My  own  Spring  long  has  withered,  and  that  fame 
Which  comes  of  work  well  wrought,  the  wreath  sublime 

Of  Poesy,  has  never  crowned  my  name. 

Yet  would  I  pass  like  him,  devoid  of  blame, 
Of  selfish,  sordid  passion.    Goddess,  hear — 

Keep  thou  my  heart  like  thine!  let  me  still  claim 
The  love  and  joyance  of  the  opening  year; 
Thy  dauntless  strife  'gainst  Time,  thy  soul's  unfailing  cheer ! 

Yet,  Goddess,  what  are  passing  lives  to  thee! 

Mother  and  nurse  of  every  living  thing, 
Thy  endless  chain  of  years,  thy  agency 

Remains  the  same,  tho  all  man's  pride  takes  wing; 

Ever  thou  buildest  for  the  garnering; 


54  ODE  TO  SPRING 

Thy  rains,  thy  dews,  thy  beams  impartial  fall; 

Ay,  every  year  thy  birds  of  promise  sing 
To  usher  in  the  Summer's  carnival; 
Love,  Life,  Hope,  Liberty  enswathing  all. 


ODE   TO   AUTUMN 

DAUGHTER  of  Ceres,  round  whose  wain-like  car 
Vine- wreathed  nymphs  and  goat-hoofed  satyrs  dance ; 
When  down  the  twilight  deeps  the  Evening  Star 
Casts  her  pale  glimmer  o'er  thy  realm's  expanse; 
,Or  when  the  Harvest  Moon  with  mellow  glance 
Is  hung  thy  lantern  in  the  fields  of  air; 

Or  when  the  cohorts  of  the  Morn  advance 
With  brazen  standard  and  with  lances'  flare, 
Queen  of  the  plenteous  time,  still  is  thy  presence  fair! 

Thou  art  not  crowned  with  blooms  like  siren  Spring, 

Nor  with  voluptuous  Summer's  glories  dight; 
But  late  the  birds  within  thy  bowers  sing, 

And  thou  hast  days  of  lingering  cool  delight; 

And  thou  with  gracious  and  benignant  might 
Art  matron  o'er  earth's  tilled  and  garnered  store; 

Her  fruits  of  gold,  green,  russet,  purple,  white, 
Her  heaped  up  treasures  of  the  threshing  floor, 
The  frothed  October  brew  and  wine-vats  brimming  o'er. 

And  thou  too  hast  a  glory  all  thine  own, — 
The  wampum  of  the  woods,  the  violet  skies ; 

The  barley  rippling  as  the  wind  is  blown 
Along  the  northland  marches;  the  rich  prize 
Of  yellow  pumpkins,  sprawling  huge  of  size; 

The  tasseled  silken  plumes  of  soldier  maize; 

The  grapes  dark  ruddy  with  their  vintage  dyes; 

The  blushing  peaches,  and  the  pear  which  sways 

Its  brown-enameled  gold  o'er  the  close  orchard  ways. 

55 


56  ODE  TO  AUTUMN 

Oh,  Autumn,  where  is  now  thy  regal  worth  ? 

Sad  palmer  queen  in  Nature's  amice  gray, 
'Tis  bleak  November, — all  thy  pride  of  birth 

Is  folded  mutely  from  the  view  of  day ! 

Vainly  the  foliage  thou  wouldst  overlay 
With  pigments  of  thy  sundown  painted  skies; 

For  while  the  trees  their  liveried  pomp  display 
Of  gala  tints  and  variegated  dyes, 
Winter  to  fragments  rends  their  cloaks  with  taunting  cries. 

Yes,  Winter,  thy  fell  rival,  now  will  turn 

Thy  whispering  verdure  into  howling  waste, 
And  choke  the  pregnant  flow  of  Plenty's  urn, 

And  clog  the  streams  with  firm  and  shining  paste; 

Across  the  northern  moors  he  maketh  haste, 
Behind  his  coursers,  furious,  fleet,  and  pale, 

In  ermine  robes  and  hoary  terrors  graced, 
With  shrouded  messengers  of  sleet  and  hail, 
His  javelined,  ghostly  scouts  who  guide  the  impending  gale. 

What  if  the  impatient  North  winds  round  thee  blow 

Their    hoarse-tongued    trumpets    as    their    King    draws 

near, — 
Thou  still  wilt  triumph,  tho  with  manes  of  snow 

The  steeds  of  Boreas  sweep  in  wild  career ; 

Ay,  when  he  hurls  his  stealthy  icy  spear 
Far  o'er  the  dun  waste  and  the  shivering  wold, 

Nature  in  dumb  defiance,  grim  and  sere, 
Fenced  by  thy  foresight  from  the  invading  cold, 
Scorns  his  unkemped  rage,  ruthless  and  over  bold. 

But  when  beside  the  shining  Christmas  board 
In  blithe  accord  the  household  kindred  meet, 

When  forth  is  spread  the  lush  life-giving  hoard 

While  round  the  doors  the  North-wind's  coursers  fleet, — 


ODE  TO  AUTUMN  57 

Then  when  the  Patriarch  takes  his  honored  seat 
To  ask  Heaven's  blessing  on  the  plenteous  fare, — 

Then  must  thy  heart  rejoice!  then  most  complete 
Thy  triumph — tho  before  the  keen-lashed  air 
Thy  chariot,  rolling  south,  hath  crossed  the  uplands  bare. 

Guardian  of  fruitful  life!  what  thee  we  owe 

We  can  with  naught  save  gratitude  repay; 
All  that  we  are,  all  that  we  feel  and  know, 

Directly  to  thy  bounty  we  must  lay; 

Far  do  thy  thoughtful  favors  overweigh 
Gay,  wanton  Summer's  flushed  and  haughty  grace; 

Thou  art  our  yearly  hope,  our  daily  stay, 
For  ere  thou  yield'st  thy  throne  and  dwelling  place, 
Thou  dost  provide  for  man  till  thou  renew'st  thy  race. 

Autumn,  God  rules  through  thee!  thy  hand  alone 
Guides  opulent  Progress  with  potential  care ; 

If  thou  but  frown,  dark  spirits  forth  are  flown, 
Satan's  fell  angels  from  their  dreadful  lair, — 
Hunger,  Theft,   Madness,   Pestilence,   Despair, 

And  Blasphemy !     Great  sovereign  of  Increase, 
Still  kindly  listen  to  thy  suppliant's  prayer! 

Grant  bread  to  life!  ay,  give  without  surcease! 

And    spread   o'er    thankful    earth    the   Saturnian    reign   of 
Peace ! 


ODE   TO   WINTER 

MONARCH  of  polar  realms,  at  whose  hoar  breath 
Even  the  hearts'  most  passionate  tides  congeal; 
King  of  frore  winds  and  patron  friend  of  Death, 
Fortressed  by  icebergs  as  with  towers  of  steel ; 
To  whose  stern  march  man's  haughtiest  navies  reel, 
Or  plunge  sheer  down  through  ocean's  champing  waves; 
Who  on  heaven-prideful  mountains  stamp'st  thy  seal ; 
Blighter  of  births  and  fructifier  of  graves; 
Sovereign  first  crowned   on   earth,  whose  subjects   all   are 
slaves ; — 

At  whose  fell  frown  sense  fails  and  hope  departs ; 

At  whose  hoarse  voice  weak  mortals  cower  with  dread ; 
Shriveling  the  poor,  blocking  the  roads  and  marts, 

Blasting  where'er  thy  boreal  flags  are  spread; 

At  sight  of  whose  wild  steeds,  disheveled  head, 
Beasts,  reptiles,  insects  wither  and  waste  from  day; 

From  whose  grim  gaze  the  choiring  birds  are  fled; 
Thy  one  desire  to  ravage,  wreck  and  slay; 
What  curse  bears  earth  like  thee — what  prayer  thy  hand 
can  stay? 

From  thy  pale  wrath  scarce  Heaven  itself  escapes. 

Thou  stripp'st  their  brave,  warm  livery  from  the  trees; 
Nor  even  weak  herbs  avoid  thy  vengeance  rapes, 

Scathing  the  valley  depths  or  upland  leas ; 

Scouting  round  Spring  with  keen  and  barbed  breeze, 
Frequent  thou  dost  her  genial  realm  surprise; 

Her  broidered  zone  and  wind-flower  garland  seize; 

58 


ODE  TO  WINTER  59 

Howling  with  rage  through  all  her  shuddering  skies; 
Marring  her  emerald  robes,  dimming  her  mild  blue  eyes. 

Nor  stands  even  Summer  from  thy  raids  exempt; 

Thou  her  rose-coronet  tear'st  with  pelting  hail; 
Oft  Autumn's  wain  and  horn  thou  dost  attempt, 

Crippling  her  husbandry  with  venomed  gale; 

The  huddling  clouds  before  thy  coming  quail ; 
The  brawling  brooks  hush  timorous  to  their  chains  ; 

The  hardy  wild-fowl  scour  with  bodeful  wail 
Before  thy  vanward  sleets  and  skirmish  rains, 
Whose  annual  trumpets  shriek  thine  onset  o'er  the  plains. 

Round  thy  swift  wheel  throng  blood-hounds — Famine  glares 

From  the  strained-leash,  impatient  for  his  prey; 
Consumption,  gaunt  and  ghastly,  round  him  stares, 

Singling  frail,  hectic  forms  to  rend  and  slay; 

Scurfed,   dull-toothed  Rheums  rush  by  with  sullen  bay, 
Worrying  their  victims  who  resourceless  die; 

Beneath  their  fangs  Youth  fades  and  Hope  turns  gray; 
Through  fear  of  th.ee  men  murder,  thieve,  and  lie, 
And   the  lashed   coward   wolves  grow  bold   beneath   thine 
eye. 

For  sure  thy  sire  was  uncouth  Chaos  old, 

Thy   dam,   decrepit,   blind,   primeval   Night, 
Who  in  their  pact  with  Time  bequeathed  thee  Cold, 

Ere   they    resigned    their    thriftless,    pristine   right; 

Who,  ere  they  winged   their  head-long  hell-ward  flight, 
Schooled  thee  for  war  against  the  ordered  world; 

Leagued  their  vague  terrors  to  thy  breath  of  blight, 
Cloud,  tempest,  darkness, — these  thy  mandate  hurled, 
Urged  by  the  Gorgon,  Want,  with  hissing  hair  uncurled. 

Long  as  this  world  its  path  celestial  wears; 
Long  as  the  indenture  of  gray  Time  shall  run, 


60  ODE  TO  WINTER 

Thou  wield'st  thy  sceptre — long  as  Heaven  forbears 
Thou  warr'st  unceasing  with  the  imperial  Sun; 
How  oft  thy  black  battalions,  one  by  one, 

Crash  'gainst  his  bright  spears  in  the  Northern  sphere! 
How  flash  thy  forked  fire-bolts!  then  the  dun, 

Tremendous  conflict  ceases;  far  and  near 

The  Sun's  armed  hosts  advance,  thine  break,  all  rout  and 
fear. 

Once  thy  high-turreted,  mastless  ships  of  war, 

Like  the  Norse  swarming,  menaced  every  coast; 
They  breasted  ocean's  breadth  from  shore  to  shore, 

A  deep-keeled,  sailless,  iridescent  host; 

They  were  thy  pride,  O  Winter,  and  thy  boast; 
Still  annual  dost  thou  launch  them,   towering  free 

Above  the  islands;  oft  a  mountain  ghost, 
An  icy  castle,  cools  the  sun-scorched  lea 
Of  some  careening  bark,  furrowing  the  trade-wind  sea. 

Thy  standards  curtained  once  the  Torrid  Zone, 

And  vexed  Enceladus  cooled  his  throat  with  snow ; 
Across  the  Alps  was  reared  thy  crystal  throne; 

Once  didst  thou  chain  the  Mississippi's  flow; 

From  coast  to  coast  thy  vanguard,  blow  on  blow, 
Spread  death  through  nether  Afric's  fervid  realm; 

Driving  before  thee  bird,  beast,  man,  thy  slow, 
Resistless  glaciers  deep  did  life  o'erwhelm, 
'Till  more  than  Timour's  rule  stretched  round  thy  sparry 
helm. 

Like  to  Armadas  whelm'd  in  ocean  surge, 

Vast  forests  sank  'neath  seas  of  leaguering  ice; 

Pushing  down  tropic  vales  the  greening  verge, 
Thy  snows  frothed  o'er  earth's  fruitage,  corn  and  rice; 
No  common  tribute  could  such  lust  suffice; 


ODE  TO  WINTER  61 

The  rocks  were  ground  to  dust,  the  mountain  fanes 

Were  channelled  peak  to  base;  one  awful  price 
Earth  paid  thee — an  enormity  of  pains, 
As  crept  thy  torturing  frost  through  her  fire-nurtured  veins. 

How   then   lived   man? — though    fenced   with   frozen   mail 

The  soil  refused  him  sustenance,  yet  his  hand 
Drew  safety  from  the  maelstrom  of  thy  gale; 

On  Earth's  last  cooling  round  he  took  his  stand  ; 

He  found  in  caves  a  refuge;  armed  with  brand 
Of  wood  or  stone,  he  dauntless  faced  and  slew 

The  earth-shaking  mastodon;  to  his  command 
He  trained  the  fleet-foot  reindeer  and  o'erthrew 
The  huge  cave-bear  that  even  thy  scourge  could  not  subdue. 

Thus  age  still  rolled  on  age, — then  through  dun  skies 

The  buckler'd  Sun  sprang  armed  in  aureate  might; 
His  flashing  javelins  gained  the  desperate  prize; 

Back  to  the  Poles  thy  chariots  wheeled  in  flight; 

There,  and  upon  the  hoariest  mountains'  height, 
Thine  outposts  o'er  the  world — eternal  sway 

Thou  boldest  with  brawn  hand  and  ancient  right, 
Pavilioned  vast  with  glaciers,   icebergs  gray, 
Thronged    round   with   winds   thy   hest   drives   world-wide 
day  by  day. 

Ay,  when  the  modern  Caesar's  fated  power 

Rose  black  with  portent  twixt  the  earth  and  sun, 

Enshrouding  continents,  in  his  amplest  hour 

Thou  met'st  him,  breath'dst  against  him,  and  undone 
He  fled,  disarmed,  dismayed;  his  empire  won 

Through  blood  and  flame  lay  prostrate;   ne'er  again, 
Answering  thy  voice,  forth  roared  the  Gallic  gun; 

Thy  winds  still  boast  those  vaunting  myriads  slain, 

Sepulchred  'neath  thy  snows  from  Moscow  to  the  Seine. 


62  DDE  TO  WINTER 

Thus  thy  revenge  grows  rooted,  still  more  high 

Around  the  Poles  thou  rear'st  thy  crystal  wall; 
Still,  age  on  age,  repulsed,  compelled  to  fly, 

Thy   cohorts   sweep    to    their   wide   carnival; 

Still,  one  by  one,  the  warm,  bright  barriers  fall; 
Persistent  siege,  insidious  attack, 

Spread  slowly,  surely  thy  perennial  thrall, 
Winning  by  piecemeal  thy  dominion  back, 
Till  Time  treads  out  his  torch,  Death  dies  and  all  is  wrack. 

Ay,  when  on  cool,  clear  eves,  athwart  the  dome 
Flare  white  thy  torches,  and  the  maiden  moon 

Is  hooped  with  silver,  'tis  thy  coming  home 
O  Conqueror!  were  our  earthly  ears  in  tune 
Well  might  we  hear  thy  minstrels'  triumph  rune 

Filtering  its  cadence  through  the  dusky  sky; 
For  be  it  gray  December  or  green  June, 

Somewhere  victorious  thy  dark  standards  fly, 

Somewhere  the  Sun  hath  failed,  somewhere  his  subjects  die. 

Yet,  O  proud  Winter,  despot  though  thou  art, 

And  unreprieving  thy  imperious  will, 
Thy  sumptuous  grace  reveals  a  royal  heart, 

What  time  thou  smil'st  the  earth  is  beauteous  still; 

Thou  deck'st  with  pearl  and  ermine  tree  and  hill, 
And  rob'st  with  light-wreathed  down  the  naked  vales, 

Bright  pendants  hang'st  to  archway,  eave,  and  sill, 
While  blush  fair  cheeks  beneath  thy  bussing  gales 
As  at  the  Sun's  first  kiss  are  tinged  the  wind-filled  sails. 

And  Nature,  vanquished,  triumphs,  too,  through  thee. 

By  thee  is  her  progressive  year  made  sure; 
But  for  her  harsh  arrest,  how  many  a  tree 

And  flowering  shrub  would  bloom  not  nor  endure; 

Safe  in  their  roots  the  thrifty  saps  procure 


ODE  TO  WINTER  63 

From  Mother  Earth  their  rife,  reviving  powers; 

Then  when  fair  Spring  holds  out  her  shining  lure, 
Up  gush  the  life-streams  and  rejoice  in  flowers, 
While  all  the  unshackled  brooks  swing  laughing  through 
the  bowers. 


Thou,  too,  art  Lord  of  Revels — jocund  thou 

In  the  grave  North  at  gracious  Christmas  time; 
For  the  bright  holly  twines  thy  rugged  brow, 

And  Mirth  and  Song  leap  round  thy  beard  of  rime. 

Then  the  gay  dance,  chime-born,  when  in  her  prime 
Heaven's  wreath  of  diamonds  frets  the  crest  of  Night, 

Whilst  the  board,  heaped  from  many  a  summer  clime 
And  from  bronzed  Autumn's  horn,  with  crystal  bright 
And  lordly  silver  crowned,  shines  in  the  hearth-fire  light. 

Such  are  thy  charms,  O  Winter!  joys  robust, 

Varied,  illustrious; — mirthful,  too,  thy  sway; 
If  earth  yields  naught  for  thee,  not  thine  the  dust, 

The  taint  defiling  the  mild  season's  day. 

Thine  is  the  silvery  trilling  of  the  sleigh, 
The  steel-shod  skater's  zest,  the  daring  slide, 

The  schoolboy's  snowball  battle,  blithesome  play! 
Where'er  thou   reign'st  free  flows  the  festal  tide, 
'Till  to  one  blithe  accord  thou  bind'st  the  harvest  side. 

E'en  when  thou  comest  in  thunders  and  in  glooms, 

(Like  Attila,  bursting  on  corrupted  Rome)  ; 
Blustering  above  thy  three  fair  rivals'  tombs, 

Even  then  thou  furtherest  the  pure  joys  of  home; 

Beneath  peaked  cottage  roof,  arched  palace  dome, 
How  glide  in  fireside  cheer  thy  riotous  hours! 

The  genial  game,  the  wise  or  witty  tome, 
Beguile  the  heart  as  in  the  month  of  flowers, 
Making  new  Edens  bloom  amongst  thy  snows  and  showers. 


64  ODE  TO  WINTER 

And  she,  my  mother  land,  Queen  of  the  North, 

Heir  to  the  Viking  heart,  the  Briton  fame; 
Midst  the  sea-bridlers  youngest,  yet  the  fourth, 

Unfurling  round  three  ocean  shores  her  claim; 

Binding  about  her  brows  the  Maple  flame; 
Holding  from  thee  the  new  North  World  in  fee; 

Unsullied  by  the  blood-drenched  Afric  shame; 
Resourceful  as  the  circumambient  sea; 
Firm  as  her  granite  hills,  staunch  as  her  bannered  tree, — 

She  gains  from  thee  the  deep-blue  of  her  skies; 

She  breeds  by  thee  her  sons  of  stalwart  mould; 
She  breathes  thru  thee  a  faith  that  never  dies; 

She  draws  her  chasteness  from  thy  storms  and  cold; 

Along  her  future  blessings  manifold 
Impend,   if  to  herself  she  hold   but  true; 

May  she,  like  thee,  still  dwell  unbribed  and  bold, 
And  bear  her  steps  still  upward,  while  the  dew 
Of  Peace  shall  pearl  her  path  and  Honor's  star  lead  true. 

Nor  comes  the  forceful  brain,   the  tireless  hand 

From  the  enervate  realms  beneath  the  Line; 
There,  flower-enchained,  the  soul  can  ne'er  expand, 

Divorced  from  care,  it  sinks  in  sloth  supine  ; 

The  voice  that  fathers  pregnant  thought  is  thine; 
The  heroic  virtues  all  are  nursed  by  thee; 

Thy  tones  to  man  are  prophecy,  like  wine 
Is  thy  keen,  urgent  spirit;  like  the  sea 
Thy  winds  upbear  his  soul,  thy  breath  is  Liberty! 

Thy  breath  is  Empire, — from  fierce  frost  and  storm 
The  lion-loined,  the  bane  of  Romans,  came; 

No  power  on  earth  could  thwart  them,  swarm  on  swarm, 
They  purged  the  world  with  massacre  and  flame; 
Before  the  blast  of  Thor's  and  Odin's  name, 


ODE  TO  WINTER  65 

The  sensual  southern  gods  abhorred  their  shrines; 

Since  then  the  North  has  bulwarked  Christ  from  blame; 
Where'er  the  Northman  rules  there  justice  shines, 
There    Civilization   grows,    broad-based,   on   ordered   lines. 

Victorious  o'er  crude  matter, — space  and  time 

Robbed  of  their  secrets, — still  man's  tireless  brain, 
All  grasping,  ventures  on  its  quest  sublime, 

Still  leads  a  longer  strong-armed  vassal  train; 

Still  surer  mastery  o'er  them  doth  obtain; 
These  giants  in  harness,   those  mysterious  powers, 

Like  the  thralled  genii  of  the  Orient  main, 
Toil  for  him  through  life's  waking,  sleeping  hours, 
Arid  crown  Time's  centuried  march  with  incense,  gems,  and 
flowers. 

Yes,  to  thy  trackless  wastes  this  marvellous  man, — 

Even  to  thy  citadels  of  ice  and  snow, — 
Following  that  spirit  born  of  these,  doth  plan 

Constant  through  Death's  most  private  haunts  to  go; 

No  terrors,  toils  may  daunt  him, — arctic  floe, 
Storm,  cold,  night,  famine  edge  the  tough  emprise; 

From  cape  to  cape,  from  mount  to  mount,  the  slow 
Receding  Pole,  still  spectral,  charms  his  eyes; — 
Thus,  starved,  benumbed,  outworn,  he  follows   Hope  and 
dies. 

Yet  there  he  penetrates — even  to  that  place 

Most  private  to  thy  rule  his  march  hath  gone; 
Even  in  the  numbing  terror  of  thy  face, 

Where  Night  her  veil  a  hundred  days  has  drawn; 

Favored  by  fortune,  yet  of  chance  the  pawn, 
His  daring  foot  is  set  upon  thy  throne; 

Lo,  there  he  stands,  his  face  turned  to  the  dawn; 
To  hunger,  toil  and  cold   unmoved  as  stone, 
So  that  his  unmatched  pride  may  claim  thy  realm  his  own. 


66  ODE  TO  WINTER 

Yet  he,  even  he,  were  but  for  thee  a  child, 
Passing  in  dreamless  sloth  life's  choicest  year; 

Driven  by  vague  impulse,  passions  rude  and  wild, 
He  drew  no  benison  from  the  purer  sphere; — 
He  breathed  no  air  of  truth ;  no  limpid  tear 

Of  feeling  made  the  flowers  of  pity  start; 
Beheld  no  beauty;  all  untuned  his  ear 

To  music  of  the  birds;  his  own  crude  heart 

Was  to  itself  a  fear,  yet  conscience  owned  no  smart. 

His  craft  was  that  of  beasts; — to  hunt,  waylay 

His  food  and  dig  rough  shelter  from  the  storm; — 
He  praised  no  God;  the  body's  lusts,  the  fray 

Nursed  the  chief  arts  that  could  his  mind  inform; 

He  knew  few  social  virtues;  like  a  swarm 
Of  insects  grew  man's  congregated  dust, 

Without  coherence,  amity,  or  form; 
From  brutish   birth  to  brutal  death   a  rust 
Clave  to  his  darkened  soul,  an  all-corroding  crust. 

Thou  didst  arouse  him,  Father  of  the  North ! 

Thou  nerved'st  his  heart-strings  in  the  great  Ice  Age; 
Drew'st  tense  his  listless  sinews,  goad'st  him  forth 

At  first,  for  naught  but  rapine,  war  to  wage 

On  palsied,  blighted  races;  now  the  sage 
Councils  of  Time  have  trained  his  hand  to  peace; 

The  victories  he  now  writes  on  History's  page 
Yield  grander  Iliads;  all  the  art  of  Greece 
Revived,  refined,  and  grasped  the  hundredth  Golden  Fleece. 

Therefore,   reign    thou,   most   honored!    for   thy  worth 
Doth  far  thy  surliest  vassals'  wraths  outweigh; 

For  whilst  thy  white  confusions  blanch  the  earth 
Thou  lay'st  foundations  for  an  ampler  day, — 
Thou  sowest  to  richer  futures;  still  life's  May 


ODE  TO  WINTER  67 

Blooms  with  the  foresights  thou  hast  taught  to  man; 

For  by  thy  rigor  forced  to  war  for  sway, 
He  forms  his  own  soul  on   thy  strenuous  plan 
And  builds  a  deathless  fame  in  one  brief  mortal  span! 


DIANA  AND  ENDYMION 

ENDYMION  had  wandered  all  day  long 
Within  the  embrasured  shadow  of  the  \voods, 
Lured  by  a  dream  of  loveliness  and  hope 
And  joyance,  such   as  comes  but  once  to  spirits 
Of  earth,  and  seldom  to  the  gods  above. 
He  hungered  not,  for  the  warm  pulse  of  youth 
Fluttered  his  eyelids,  beat  about  his  brain 
With   visions  blissful,  rapt;  for  all  his  soul 
Vibrated,  pinioned  by  the  breath  of  June, 
Blown  thru  the  cedarn  alleys,  and  the  burden 
Of  swaying  pine-tops  melted  thru  his  mood, 
Like  incense   midst  a  pure   impassioned   prayer, 
Till  the  deep  diapason  of  the  boughs 
Rhythmed  the  pulse  of  languorous  delight 
With  wordless  chords  of  song.     He  came  at  eve 
Upon  the  woodland  fringe,  when  camping  Day 
Had  set  his  crimson  standard   in   the  West, 
And  driven  his  golden-maned  steeds  a-field 
For  pasture  ere  the  morrow;  o'er  the  heath 
The  opposing  gradual  shades  of  evening  fell 
In  folds  like  wings  of  sleep,  and  the  mild  dews 
Of  Latmos,  steeped  in  odors,  filtered  down 
Thru  the  dim  breathless  air  and  touched  his  brow 
With  balm-anointing  coolness; — o'er  the  vales 
Faintly  the  low  of  home-returning  kine 
Rose  with  a  hollow  murmur,  like  the  pipe 
Of  Pan  himself,  and  swathed  the  pulseless  eve 
With  a  soft  film  of  sound; — the  purple  shades 
Deepened  to  bluish  jet,  and  one  by  one 


DIANA  AND  ENDYMION  69 

The  sentinels  of  Heaven  in  glistering  arms 
Moved  midst  the  tented  night,  to  each  his  stand, 
And  panoplied  with  light  the  involved  skies 
And  the  still,  breathing  earth; — nor  yet  the  Morn 
Had  journeyed  forth,  but  in  her  house  of  clouds 
Lingered  awhile,  as  loth  to  shame  the  stars 
With  her  full  aureate  beam. 

Endymion  drew 

His  leopard  skin  around  his  graceful  loins 
And  leaned  against  a  tree  whose  blossoms  pale 
Broke  foam-like  o'er  his  head,  and  breathed  their  love 
Into  the  silent  night; — the  languid  eve 
Pressed  its  nepenthe  deep  within  his  soul, 
Soothing  with  cool  caress;  his  eyelids  fell 
And  his  breast  heaved  with  weariness;  all  cloyed 
With  drowsy  sweets  he  sank  upon  the  sward, 
Arm-pillowed,  dreamless  in  the  pale  starlight. 
But  soon  the  curved  moon  from  her  cloud  sphere 
Outbroke  and  turned  her  calm  and  tender  gaze 
Upon    the   limp    form   of   the   Arcadian   youth, 
Bathing  with  lucent  glow  his  olive  face 
And   russet  burnished   limbs; — her  nether  horn 
Hung  like  an  argent  sickle,  and  from  its  tip 
A  silvery  gleam  fell  o'er  the  dusk-bound  earth, 
Banding  the  height  with  lustre  to  the  feet 
Of  slumber-wrapped  Endymion; — down  its  coil 
A   radiant   goddess   slipped   with   arms   outspread, 
White  as  the  drift  of  Heaven;  on  her  arched  brow 
The  moon  had  fixed  her  image,  and  her  breast 
Shone  brighter  than  Orion's  belt  with  gems, 
That  burned  the  dusk  to  splendor;  at  her  back 
A  sheaf  of  silver  arrows  crossed  a  bow, 
The  red  hart's  lordly  tine;  in  her  right  hand 
She  bore  an  ash-tree  javelin  tipped  with  steel, 
Which  sooty  Vulcan  tempered  diamond  hard 
On  Lemnos  long  agone;  her  beach-brown  hair 


70  DIANA  AND  ENDYMION 

Was  coiled,  save  one  long  curl  that  'gainst  her  throat. 

Her  throat  of  matchless  alabaster,  swirled, 

Clung,  as  she  dawned  on  Earth  and  to  the  side 

Of  the  still  youth  with  printless  tread  she  drew. 

The  splendor  of  her  beauty  waked  the  birds 

And  tuned  the  slender  life  amidst  the  grass 

To   tenfold   chorus,   as  with   buskined    feet, 

Brushing  the   harebell  blossoms,  her  proud   lips 

Curved  to  a  smile  of  wonder  and  delight, 

She  drank  the  charm   of  the  transcendent  youth. 

She  stooped,  then  paused,  a  goddess  bashful  grown; 

She   paused,   then   stooped;   her    face   with   blushes   flamed 

That  turned  the  flowers  to  rose;  she  bent  her  down 

And  lightly  touched  his  lips,  then  thru  his  hair 

Of   clustering  hyacinth   she    amorous   swept 

The  glory  of  her  hand. 

He  waked  not  yet, 

Although   his  heart  was  stirred   with    dreams   divine, 
With  beatific  visions,  as  the  chrism 
Of  more  than  mortal  love  enswathed  his  soul. 
Then  as  the  sleeper  stirred  she  hovered  there 
Close  to  his  face  and  breathed  his  smothered  sigh 
Of  warmth-fed  passion,  as  the  youthful  blood 
Coursed   nimbly  thru  the  alleys  of  his  brain 
And   fed   voluptuously   the   uncharted   mind 
With  rapt,  aspiring  dream.     She  smiled,  she  sighed; 
Her  breast  with  longing  heaved,  counting  the  cost, — 
The  commune  of  the  gods,  the  praise  of  men, 
Worship  of   virgins,   her  Ephesian   shrine, 
And   all  the  glories  of  her  name  and  state. 
Fate  held  the  golden  scales — a  mortal  love 
Against  a  heavenly  crown;  a  span  of  bliss 
Against  an  immortality  of  cold 
And  splendid  power;  then  again  she  gazed 
Upon   the  sleeping  youth ;   till   yearning  swayed 
Her  pulsing  soul,   far  thrusting  back  her  vow, 


DIANA  AND  ENDYMION  71 

Her  oath  of  godhead;  musing,  half-inclined 
To  veil  her  deity  in  a  mortal  frame, 
And  clothe  her  splendor  with  the  common  garb 
Of  human  uses  and  the  ways  of  men. 
But  even  then   the  intrusive  morning  broke 
Gray-filmed    between   the   porches  of   the  East; 
And   looking   forth   she  marked   a   scarlet  shaft 
Of  sunrise  break  upon  the  throned  crest 
Of  far  Olympus,  canopied  with  clouds, 
The  home  of  prescience  and  power  where  dwell 
The  starry  gods  who  guide  the  fates  of  men; 
Then  turned  and  still  with  backward-looking  eyes. 
She  floated  forth  across  the  Latmian  height, 
Urging  ethereal  passage  toward  the  Mount, 
And  burned  a  rival  splendor  'gainst  the  dawn 
Above  the  pathless  and  unstable  sea. 


DEFORMED 

LEAVE  wide  the  window — let  the  new-born  Spring 
Enfold  me  ere  I  die  with  her  warm  breath! 
Die,  did  I  say?     I  but  cast  off  this  thing 

Hate  calls  its  body.     Claim  thy  tribute,  Death! 
Men  have  belied  thy  terrors;  thou'rt  to  me 
Deliverer;   come,   proud   king,   and  make  me   free! 

Yes,  I  thy  lover,  Death,  have  wooed  thee  long, 
For  Life  hath  crossed  me  with  its  foulest  spite; 

Life   hath    debased    me,    tricked    me,    turned    me    wrong; 
Set  me  a  mock  in  Earth's  and  Heaven's  sight. 

Life?     I  have  never  lived!     In  this  brief  span 

I  but  have  shared  his   agony  with  man. 

Nought  else?     Ah,  yes,  these  flowers!     Their  beauty  fills 
My  soul  with  ravishment,  whose  hope  is  proof 

Against  this  loathed  flesh,  these  wasting  ills; 
God  gave  me  love — it  is  my  sole  behoof: 

I  love  the  flowers!     I  love  this  sweet  spring  day, 

And  you,  dear  friend,  you  I  will  love  for  aye! 

No  coldness  froze  me  in  your  steadfast  eye; 

Your  heart  was  always  to  compassion  true; 
You  only  did  not  curse  me,  pass  me  by; 

Alone  of  all  mankind  I  have  but  you; 
I  have  been  twice  redeemed;  not  once  sufficed 
For  me,  you  are  my  nearer,  second  Christ! 

72 


DEFORMED  73 

Yes,  hell  was  mine,  an  earthly  hell  of  shame; 

The  vilest  outcasts  drove  me  from  their  sight; 
Their  scorn  and  hatred  seared  me  like  a  flame; 

Women  and  babes  fled  from  me  in  affright; 
Never  since  matter  germed,  since  earth  was  green, 
Was  such  a  vile  misshapen  monster  seen! 

Yet  I  was  born  with  human  mind  and  heart; — 
Ah,  why  should  God  have  left  this  mark  on  me! 

Yes,  I  can  weep — look  how  the  tear-drops  start 
As  limpid  as  from  eyes  of  infancy! 

The  temple  ways  are  foul,  but  its  pure  shrine 

Is  silver  and  holds  consecrated  wine. 


'Tis  said  in  His  own  image  God  made  man, 
But  only  sin's  foul  shape  was  shown  in  me; 

Some  wickedness,   first  born  when   time  began, 
Resisting  goodness  and  regeneracy, 

Heaped  high  its  growing  horrors  on  my  head, 

And  for  God's  beauty  fiend-form  gave  instead. 

I  walked  the  earth  an  alien!  even  the  birds 
Twitted  me  with  deformity — the  broad  sun 

Laughed  at  my  plight — day  stared  at  me — men's  words 
Flicked  at  me  serpent-like — their  eyes  to  shun 

Dwelt  on  me  still  detesting — God  and  man 

And  pitiless  nature  laid  me  under  ban. 

Yet  have  I  read  of  pure  and  tender  joys; 

And  covertly,  like  Satan  upon  Eve, 
Besieged  by  all  the  yearning  life  annoys, 

I  gazed  at  beauty,  still  constrained  to  weave  , 
Among  sad  thoughts  the  unavailing  tears 
Of  hopeless,  homeless,  loveless,  blighted  years. 


74  DEFORMED 

Affection,  which  hath  fostered  every  life, 

Spurned  me  and  changed  her  sweet  breast-milk  to  gall; 
The  whole  world's  hate  fell  o'er  me;  all  its  strife, 

Was  how  to  break  my  spirit.     Sad  as  Saul 
When  Israel's  heart  turned  from  him,  I  began 
To  live,  to  grow,  in  soul,  at  least,   a  man. 


A  curse  far  heavier  than  the  curse  of  Cain, 

Or  him,  who  cries  "unclean!"  fell  on  my  brow; 

I  heard  the  angels  o'er  my  plight  complain, 
Around  me  fiendish  shapes  did  mop  and  mow; 

While  leering  faces  cast  a  ghostly  spell 

Across  the  path  that  lured  me  down  to  hell. 

They  sold  me  like  a  chattel,  hissed  and  jeered; 

They  thrust  me  forth  before  the  vulgar  crowd; 
Their  laughter  tortured  me;  my  soul  was  seared 

By  their  low  horror ;  and  my  spirit  bowed 
Almost  to  breaking  'neath  that  cross  of  scorn 
To  which  my  human  heritage  was  born. 

Even  the  frightful  freaks  I  dwelt  among, 

Avoided  contact,  shuddered,  turned  away, 
Or  cursed  me ;  hourly  by  their  insults  stung 

I  cursed  myself  and  cursed  the  light  of  day. 
And  as  the  thing  I  called  my  head  I  bent, 
I  felt  the  fearful  laughter  thrill  the  tent. 

And  then  the  barker  with  a  fiendish  leer, 

Stood  up  and  poured  the  vitriol  of  his  tongue 

Around  me,  raising  in  their  throats  a  jeer, 

Which  like  the  flame  of  Tartarus  scorched  and  stung; 

Till  all  the  earth  was  torment,  and  I  trod 

The  bitter  wine-press  of  the  wrath  of  God. 


DEFORMED  75 

Then  in  a  maze  I  saw  you  mount  the  boards; 

I  watched  the  anger  quiver  in  your  eye ; 
Like  to  the  money-changers  whipped  with  cords, 

From  your  just  rage  I  watched  the  barker  fly; 
Next  with  your  Christ-like  arm  you  cleared  a  space, 
Among  the  throng,  and  with  me  left  the  place. 

Then  to  my  hideous  grave  of  life  there  came 

One  ray  of  comfort,  first  of  all  my  days; 
One  heavenly  word  of  kindness  in  His  Name, 

Who  taught  us  Love;  a  word  beyond  all  praise; 
That  word  was  brother — your  hand  sought  for  mine, 
You   bathed  my  heart  with  sympathy  divine. 

I  looked — but  in  your  eyes  I  failed  to  see 

Aversion,  lurking  like  a  coiled  snake; 
The  balm  of  pitying  cheer  was  there  for  me; 

The  angel,  Hope,  in  your  blessed  accents  spake; 
These  books,  these  pictures,  flowers,  are,  all  from  you, 
Oh,  rarer  heart  than  woman's,  kind  and  true! 

Yes,  you  have  earned  the  love  I  had  bestowed 
Upon  some  woman  in  life's  happier  state; 

The  love  to  unborn  children  I  have  owed, 
The  love  that  in  all  hearts  outlasteth  fate; 

On  every  path  of  life  a  spring  of  God, 

Waiting  the  stroke  of   Faith's  divining  rod. 


Here  in  this  chamber,  closed  from  eyes  of  men, 
I  have  worn  out  the  remnant  of  my  years 

In  peace  if  not  in  happiness;  and  when 

This  lies  in  death,  I  will  rise  midst  my  peers, 

The  spirits  gone  before;  I  then  must  be 

In  the  new  body — oh,  what  ecstasy! 


76  DEFORMED 

Yes,  Death  and  I  are  friends!     I  never  knew 
Life's  dread  of  him,  and  now  my  sole  regret 

Is   leaving  you,   dear    friend,    for   in   that   new 
And  better  world  there  will  not  one  be  met, 

Except  it  be  Christ's  self,  to  whom  this  heart 

Will  yearn  as  then  for  yours — but  here  we  part! 

Once  more  your  hand!  ah,  friend,  the  love  I  bear, 
Would  that  it  might  ennoble  this  vile  form; 

Then  might  you  see  my  soul,  its  visage  fair 

Rainbowed  from  out  this  passing  cloud  and  storm, 

Irradiating  Life.    Ah,  Beauty,  Love, 

I  shall  behold  you  perfect  there  above! 

The  unclothed  beauty  of  the  soul  that  grows 

Sublimer  as  the  effluence  of  that  life 
Which  is  the  sun  indeed!  which  ever  flows 

Across  the  warring  clouds  of  human  strife, 
And  gendering  all  the  glory  of  the  years 
Breaks  into  starry  splendor  on  the  spheres. 

The  beauty,  strength  and  symmetry  here  sighed 

In  vain  for,  as  I  sighed  for  that  of  flesh; 
The  manhood  purged  by  suffering,  glorified 

In  the  new  larger  life  we  live  afresh; 
The  favor  of  God's  smile,  the  love  of  Christ; 
BROTHER — 'twas  His  the  word;  dear  friend — the  TRYST! 


THE    EVER-GROWING    TRUTH 
(A  Parable) 

A  SEED  of  truth,  now  far  renowned, 
A  poet  in  his  garden  found; 
Yet  whence  it  came  or  how  it  grew 
Or  what  its  worth  he  scarcely  knew; 
He  planted  it;  with  tender  thought, 
The  germ  was  to  unfolding  brought. 
He  nourished  it  with  deftest  skill 
And  placed  it  on  his  window  sill; 
A  world  of  patient  care,  in  sooth, 
He  lavished  on  that  new-born  Truth. 

Enamored  of  its  thrifty  grace, 

He  stood  it  in  the  market-place, 

And  hourly  to  the  crowd  would  cry, 

"My  precious  Truth,  who'll  buy!  who'll  buy!" 

He  sang  its  praises  late  and  soon 

In  lyrics  of  all  kinds  of  tune; 

Yet  tho  it  shot  forth  green  and  fair, 

And  spread  its  leaves  to  sun  and  air, 

Burgher  and  matron,  maid  and  youth, 

Laughed  at  the  poet  and  his  Truth. 

A  scientist   in   cap   and   gown, 
First  marked   it   with   a   hostile   frown; 
A  pedant,  steeped  in  dreams  of  age, 
Fogged  in  his  mythologic  page, 
Declared  it  but  a  weed,  he  saw 
77 


78  THE  EVER-GROWING  TRUTH 

'Twas  clear  against  time-honored  law; 
For  plants  of  such  a  strange  degree 
He  could  not  find  authority; 
He  deemed  it  but  a  thing  uncouth; 
"It  never,  never  could  be  Truth." 

A  pompous  theologue  drew  near 

And  smiled,  "Good  sir,  what  have  we  here? 

'Tis  worthless,  friend;  you  should  devote 

Your  care  to  matters  less  remote. 

Certainly  God  did  not  intend 

This  unknown  weed  to  work  His  end. 

A  thousand  seedlings  comelier  far 

I'll  lend  you  from  my  dogma  jar. 

You  surely  cannot  mean,  forsooth, 

To   call   this   wretched   wild    thing,   Truth." 

A  politician  sidled   up 

And  sneered,  "You  drain  a  bitter  cup. 

Who'll  buy?    Not  all  the  fiends  in  Hell 

Nor  saints  in  Heaven;  you'd  better  sell 

Odes  to  the  hero  of  the  time; 

He's   useful,    if    much    less   sublime. 

You  swear  you've  grown  it?     Well,  suppose 

You  have — will't  bring  you  bread  and  clothes? 

From    Pilate   down,"  he  chuckled,    "youth, 

We're  all  at  sea  about   the  Truth." 

One  day  a  philosophic  wight 
Fingered  it,  gauged  its  spread  and  height; 
He  measured  down  and  round  about, 
Yet  what  it  was  still  held  in  doubt. 
'Twas  in  bad  way — 'twould  soon  be  dead; 
He  snorted,  squinted,  shook  his  head: 
"A  dreamer's  whim  as  one  may  see; 
What,  this  thing  bourgeon  to  a  tree! 


THE  EVER-GROWING  TRUTH  79 

'Twill  ne'er  abide  Time's  gnawing  tooth; 
It  never,  never  can  be  Truth." 

So  all  men  on  it  gazed   askance, 

Or   gave  it  scorn  or  passing  glance; 

They  tossed  their  heads,  they  pursed  their  lips, 

They   would   not   take   the   proffered   slips. 

The  owner  shouted  all  day  long, 

"Who'll  buy — 'tis  surely  worth  a  song!" 

But  tho  it  wrung  the  poet's  heart 

To    sue    the    mammon-greedy    mart, 

They  would  not  give  him  heed  nor  ruth, 

They  would  not  buy  his  novel  Truth. 

Time  passed — the  world-wrecked  poet  died; 

The  plant  his  loving  hand   supplied 

With  tendance  slowly   pined   away, 

Nor  longer   bloomed   in   face  of   day; 

Blossom  and  leafage,  all  forgot, 

Lay   shrunk   within    the   earthen    pot. 

Men  marked   its   brown   and  cheerless  hue: 

"Look  what  the  crazy   poet   grew! 

Pity  the  fool  outlived  his  youth, 

He   fondly  called   this  changeling   'Truth.'  " 

And    now    the    plant    which    had    beguiled 
The   poet,   passed  unto   a  child, 
A  weak-eyed  offspring,  who,  purblind 
When  manhood  came,  forgot  to  mind 
The   precious   flower,    and    anyone 
Who  cared  might  place  it  in  the  sun. 
"I  have  so  much,  so  much  to  do; 
My   father   valued    it? — most   true." 
He  blinked,  then  gave  a  yawn  uncouth; 
"I  have  no   time  to  air  his  Truth." 


8o  THE  EVER-GROWING  TRUTH 

At  length  a  stranger  hurrying  by, 
Chanced   the  neglected  plant  to  spy. 
He  halted,  gazed,  then  asked  the  price, 
And   straight  he   owned   it    in   a  trice. 
He    watered    it   with    constant   care, 
He  gave   it  wealth  of  sun   and   air, 
When,  lo,  around  its  withered  heart 
New  tender  sprouts  began  to  start; 
They  leaved,  they  wove  a  verdant  booth, — 
The   poet's  wonder-working  Truth ! 

And  now  folk  asked  in  stark  surprise 

Whence    came    this   plant    of    giant   size. 

They  wondered  much  to  see  it  spread; 

Then   fell  to  praising  it  instead. 

The  theologue,  with  mouth  agape, 

All   speechless,   watched    it    taking   shape; 

The  man  of  science  wrote  a  book 

Upon  it;  pedants  stopped  to  look 

With  reverence,  and  the  man  of  sooth, 

The  philosoph,  adored  the  Truth. 

The  politician  stared,  and  then 
Took  off  his  hat  and  cried,  "Amen ! 
We've  grown  it;  I  foresaw  it  all, 
'Tis  plain  as  apples  in  the  Fall: 
The  man  was  cannier  than  we   knew; 
I    also   had    this   long   in   view." 
But  all,  unknowing  whence  it  came, 
Thronged  to  the  owner  for   its   name; 
"What's  this?"   they   cried,   "is  this   forsooth 
What  that   daft  rhymer  called   the  Truth?" 

"You  would  not  take  the  poet's  word," 
He  answered,  "tho   'twas   daily  heard; 
Like  mine,  your  prescience  might  have  known 


THE  EVER-GROWING  TRUTH  81 

These   bravely   struggling   leaves   half-grown, 

And  owned,  had  you  but  eyes  to  see, 

These  blossoms  for   futurity. 

The  man  you  mocked  heartbroken  died; 

The  plant  you  scorned  is  now  your  pride; 

Supreme  beyond  neglect  or  ruth, 

Behold  the   never-dying  Truth!" 


EUGENIE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  SON 

WHAT,  killed!    O  God!  who  said  so?  it  is  false! 
I'll  not  believe  it!  'tis  an  arrant  lie 
Forged  by  an  enemy!     Tears!  then  it's  true, 
True  or  I  would  not  weep !    I  shall  go  mad 
Crushed  by  this  load  of  woe!     My  son,  my  son! 
Bless'd  God,  couldst  thou  not  find  a  sacrifice 
Some  other  than  my  lamb,  my  only  one? 
Were  there  not  gallant  hearts  ejaow  to  bleed 
That  have  no  mothers  ? — None  but  only  him 
On  whom  the  hopes  of  millions  lived  and  thrived? 
Art  thou  all  sternness,  that  couldst  take  his  life, 
So  hopeful,  fresh  and  loving,  full  of  joy, 
And  leave  me  desolate? — Oh,  it  cannot  be! 
Men  call  thee  merciful,  and  mercy  loves 
To  guard  young  tender  life,  not  to  crush  quite 
The   lonely   longing   heart,    the   yearning   hope, 
The  hope  of  years,  long,  long  and  painful  years; — 
Oh  Heaven,  I  rave,  I  rave,  stern  judging  Heaven! 
I  never,  oh,  I  never  more  shall  see 
Him  whom  I   once  called  Louis,   never  lay 
My  hand  upon  his  brow  and  bid  him  live 
The  coming  glory,  life  and  light  of  France. 
Ah,  woe  is  me!  for  I  have  outlived  hope, 
Husband  and  throne  and  country,  and  my  child! 
Strike  now,  thou  grinning  Death,  and  join  again 
Them  thou  hast  parted !  give  me  back  my  boy ! 
Or  that  this  agonizing  grief  might  bring 
Madness  upon  my  soul!  but  yet  not  so — 
For  then,  perchance,  I'd  lose  all  memory 

82 


EUGENIE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  SON      83 

Of  my  poor  stricken  love; — no,  better  live 
And  weep  from  day  to  day  salt  drops  of  sorrow 
And  drown  my  grief  in  tears,  feeding  their  flow 
Upon  remembrances  of  my  dear  boy, 
Nipped  by  the  fierce  frost  in  his  morn  of  May. 

0  my  son,  my  son! 

Had  I  been  near  to  hear  thy  dying  lips 
Falter  the  name  of  Mother — to  exchange 
One  parting  look — to  stanch  thy  piteous  wounds — 
To  watch  the  flicker  of  thy  fleeting  breath; — 
How  soft  I  would  have  pressed  thee  to  my  breast 
Where  once  thou  lay,  my  child,  a  smiling  babe — 
And  soothed  thy  passing  moments,  and  have  wiped 
The  death-dew  from  thy  brow — but  thou  art  gone — 
And  I  no  more  shall  see  thee,  my  lost  boy! 
My  one,  my  Joseph!  oh,  my  light,  my  all! 

1  cannot  think,  my  child,  that  thou  art  dead, 
And  that  corruption  and  the  grave  shall  mar 
Thy  delicate  flesh — thou  wert  too  young  to  die; 
Youth  bloomed,  hope  brightened  in  thy  speaking  glance, 
And  how  I  loved  to  trace  with  mother's  pride 

The  lineaments  the  partial  hand  of  Time 
Was  graving  on  thy  brow,  kinglike  and  fair. 
Ah,  little  thought  I,  child,  when  thou  didst  belt 
England's  bright  sword  of  battle  on  thy  side 
And  with  thy  radiant  smile  didst  raise  my  hopes 
With  words  of  loving  cheer,  that  I  no  more 
Would  hear  the   merry  music  of  thy  voice 
Beguile  my  weary  hours  from  vain  regrets; 
No  more  would  feel  thy  warm  breath  on  my  cheek, 
The  light  clasp  of  thine  arm,  as  with  flushed  brow 
And  kindling  eye,  thou  saidst,  "Ma  mere,  adieu! 
I  go  to  make  me  worthy  thee  and  France 
And  crown  my  brows  with  honor,  that  the  world 
May  know  thy  son  is  equal  to  his  name 


84      EUGENIE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  SON 

And  to  his  former  fortunes — happy  if  he 

May  thread  with  glory  the  dark  web  of  fate. 

His  star  shall  lead  thy  Louis  up  to  fame, 

France,  and  an  empire ;  never  yet  hath  failed 

The  great  hope  of  our  race — good  bye,  good  bye! 

God  keep  thee!"  and  thou  leftst  me  with  that  word. 

Yes,  then  thou  leftst  me,  leftst  me  here  alone. 

Alone!  was  I  alone?     No,  while  thou  livedst 

My  spirit  went  forth  with  thee,  as  in  dreams, 

Watched  o'er  thee  oft  on  shipboard  or  in  camp, 

Walked  with  thee  up  and  down,  joined  in  thy  prayer, 

Ay,  poured  out  for  thee  litanies  of  love. 

I'd  muse  away  whole  hours  upon  a  guess 

Of  how  thou'dst  be  employed,  and  how  thou'dst  shine 

Upon  the  field  of  battle,   and  would  pray 

The  God  of  hosts  to  keep  my  boy  from  harm, 

Till  prayer  begat  assurance — Oh,  fond  fool! 

To  trust  the  promptings  of  a  mother's  heart 

And  hope  to  buy  thy  safety  with  her  prayers. 

Oh,  thou  wert  winged  for  glory,  Icarus, 

But  flew  too  near  its  sun!     Now  art  thou  gone, 

And  now  am  I  alone!     Oh,  I  am  cold! 

The  night-wind  gives  a  moan  that  thou  art  dead, 

The  night-bird  tells  it  to  her  lonely  mate; 

This  eve  the   Sun,   fainting  within   the  west, 

Cast  on  his  bed  of  clouds  a  bloody  stain, 

Yet  shall  he  rise  and  smile,  freshed  with  new  life — 

But  thou,  my  Light,  my  Sun,  dyeing  the  fields 

Of  far-off  Africa  with  thy  young  life 

Let  out  by  savage  hands, — remorseless  hearts 

That  held  no  pity  for  thy  tender  youth, 

Thy   life-blood  streaming  on  their  cruel  spears — 

No  more  shall  come  to  greet  me  with  thy  smile. 

I  am  alone,  alone  amidst  a  world 

Of  moving  bodies,  careless,  mocking  forms 

That  taunt  me  with  their  life  thy  bloody  death. 


EUGENIE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  SON      85 

I  have  no  more  to  live  for  and  the  grave 
Yawns  wide  its  dreary  portal; — come,  kind   Death! 
Snap  the  last  cord  that  binds  me  to  this  earth 
That  I  may  seek  my  lost  one  through  the  skies; — 
I  have  no  other  hope — I  am  alone! 


RESURGAM 

"Old  things  need  not  be  therefore  true 
O  brother  men,  nor  yet  the  new; 
Ah!  still  awhile  the  old  thought  retain, 
And  yet  consider  it  again!" 

SO  wrote  the  rhymer  of  a  vanished  day 
And  we,  the  Present's  children  in  our  play 
At  circumstance,   abiding  calm   and  sane, 
Should  take  this  home — consider  it  again! 

The  passing  hour — the  horologe  of  Time 
Rounds  forth  the  cycle  of  a  change  sublime; 
Old    institutions    tottering   to    their    fall, 
And  a  new  writing  on  tradition's  wall. 
Progress  plays  life  'gainst  death — the  setting  sun 
Brings  with  new  hopes  and  fears  fresh  tasks  begun, 
New  to  last  year  or  yesterday,  and  change, 
Growth  and  decay  thru  all  creation  range. 
And  yet — and  yet — the  past  is  with  us  still ; 
Plan  what  we  may  the  omnipresent  will 
Of  past   achievement  lays  its  heavy  hand 
Upon  our  souls  to  warn,   to  check,   command. 
There  is  no  dead  past — the  germ  source,  the  earth, 
Gives  to  all  sentient  life  its  primal  birth; 
Each  animal,  plant,  serviceable  sod, 
Lives  in  and  on  and  of  the  senseless  clod. 
Unresting  as  earth's  tides  the  social  flow 
Beats  on  Time's  shores  in  waves  of  joy  or  woe. 
Creatures  of  circumstance  are  we,  and  yet 
This  homely  phrase  we  never  should  forget, 

86 


RESURGAM  87 

Tho  chance  at  times  conspires  to  prove  a  lie, 
"God  is  with  him  who  keeps  his  powder  dry." 

All  conscious  effort  tells, — the  amoeba's  span 

Marks  progress,  even  as  the  mind  of  man. 

And  all  life's  sublimations,  all  its  ills 

Spring  from  the  varied  tension  of  our  wills. 

This  we  may  say — there  dwells  essential  might 

That  makes  for  God,  in  other  phrase,  the  Right; 

In  spite  of  foil  and  of  recurrent  flow 

The  tides  of  being  swell    and   higher  go. 

As  various  as  the  leaves  of  forest  trees, 

As  shapes  of  rock  or  cloud,  as  flight  of  bees 

Or  birds  or  butterflies,  the  human  soul 

Differs  within  the  round  of  its  control. 

Humanity,  that  particolored  veil 

Of  the  Almighty  whose  pure  beams  assail 

The   universe,    changes  with   every   cloud 

Of  custom   twixt   the   cradle   and   the   shroud. 

And  with  this  change  comes  strife; — Existence  first 

Claims  tribute  of  our  nature  as  of  erst, — 

To  gain  whate'er  one  can, — the  primal  law 

That  doth  all  life  within  its  meshes  draw. 

And  next  the  spirit  of  Beauty,  struggling  thru 

The  inert  past,   the  chaos  of  the  new, 

Wearing  upon   its  crest  world  maidenhood, 

Unfolding   in   its   utmost  sense   the   Good. 

And  last,  the  chrism  of  Love,  supreme  control 

Of  life  made  perfect  in  the  human  soul, 

Forsaking  self  and  passing  hand  to  hand 

The  torch  of  Happiness  thru  a  darkened  land. 

Yet  Love,  as  said  the  ancient  world,  is  blind: 

Tho  true  its  instincts,  none  the  less  has  Mind 

Sentence  and   rule  of   every  living  thing, 

And  out  of  Mind  Justice  and  Order  spring. 

And  out  of  Order,  Justice  grows  the  State, 


88  RESURGAM 

Borrowing  the  curule  chair  and  robes  of  Fate, 

And  high  above  the  throne  of  State,  the  rood 

Blood-drenched  and  scarred  of  Human  Brotherhood. 

Out  of  this  concord  currents  flow  of  thought, 

Muddy,  clear  welling,  ill  or  wisely  taught, 

A  reaching  out  for  something  unfulfilled, 

By  knowledge  chastened,  by  doubt  checked  or  chilled. 

Philosophy,  Religion,  Science,  Art, 

These  sway  the  soul  in  absolute  or  part, 

The  four  main  props  of  life,  and  built  on  these 

The  thousand   tiers  of   life's   utilities. 

From  savage  up  to  seer,  the  soul's  unrest 

Is  constant,  striving  still  to  be  expressed 

In  some  rude  idol  moulded,  carved  by  hand, 

Or  thoughts  that  to  the  zenith  star  expand. 

Like  tides  that  sweep  upon  some  rock-bound  shore 

These  waves  of  soul-endeavor  evermore 

Beat  on  the  shores  of  Time;  their  constant  play 

Sweep  round  the  headlands  of  the  stormed  to-day. 

The  social  systems,  present,  past,  to  come, 
The  monarch's  trumpet,  the  republic's  drum, 
The  poet's  vision,  the  idealist's  plan, 
The  Happy  Valley,  the  millennial  man, 
And  all  the  varied  shibboleths  proved  in  vain, 
Voiced  by  the  restless  record  of  the  brain, 
Fast  as  the  pictured  films  incessant  flow, 
While  life  moves  on  with  never-ending  show. 

Lo,  Anarchy,  an  ideal,  crudely  wrought, 
Unchartered  by  historic  fact  or  thought, 
Bearing  within  itself  the  seeds  of  death, 
Denying  force,   yet   force  its  living  breath, 
Cursing  the   nations   and    by   them   accursed, 
Destruction  of  the  state  its  last  and  first, 


RESURGAM  89 

Best  advertised  of  economic  pills, 
The  panacea  for  all  social  ills! 

A  stricter  theory,  a  preciser  scope, 

Rule  grown  supreme,  the  Socialistic  hope, 

Antithesis  of  Anarchy,  to  bind 

In  law's  straight  shackles  variant  mankind; 

At  hearth  and  field  and  mart  one  pulseless  plan 

To  free  the  aspiring,  restless  heart  of  man; 

To  lift  the  curse  from  poverty  and  play 

Jove  to  the  trivial  habit  of  the  day; 

To  shove  each  king  and  magnate  from  his  throne 

Yet  place  thereon  an  idol  hard  as  stone, 

And  under  guise  of  setting  genius  free 

Fettering  it  thru  combined  utility; 

Man's  flowering  thought,  a  formal  potted  theme; — 

This  forms  the  rainbow  of  an  airy  dream. 

Ah,  could  such  dream  dawn  true!  if  Heaven's  white  dove 

Of  peace  could  bind  the  peoples  all  in  love, 

With  chains  of  flowers,  or  might  man  and  man 

Bridge  heart  to  heart,  nor  Hell  have  power  to  ban, 

The  true  Christ  then  were  come,  no  god-head  birth, 

But  a  new  human  day-spring  o'er  the  earth. 

If  such  the  consecration — if  the  mind 

Of  Heaven  might  clothe  and  expedite  mankind, 

Moulding  the  world  one  kinship,  fit  to  climb 

The  laurelled  heights  of  self-obscured  time, 

Not  vain  Love's  martyrs  braved  the  toil  and  shock, 

Nor  Sidney's  blood  flowed  fruitless  on  the  block, 

Nor  all  the  seers  who  wizard  armor  forge 

From  Socrates  to  Kant  and  Henry  George 

To  fight  the  dragon,  Error,  would  be  found 

Vain   charging   down   the   wind;   nor   would    be   drowned 

In  the  world  discord  of  the  new  and  last 

The  mighty  poets,  answering  blast  for  blast, 


90  RESURGAM 

The  trumpet  tongues  of  the  ages,  who  aye  strove 

To  show  that  love  was  beauty,  beauty  love; 

The  symmetry  and  concord  of   the  soul, 

All  life  and  light,  with  systems  as  they  roll 

In  one  harmonious  diapason — sod, 

Tree,  flower,  fish,  reptile,  bird,  beast,  man,  to  God! 


IN  THE  GLOAMING 


WE  sat  upon  the  rough  sea  shore, 
My  plighted  love  and  I ; 
The  heavens  with  clouds  were  tented  o'er, 
No  star  upheld  the  sky; 
Yet  was  the  ether  strewn  with  light 
And  sweet  the  air  and  mild, 
While  the  slow  waters  to  the  night 
Crooned  like  a  sleepy  child 


II 


When  lulled  upon  its  mother's  knee; 

And  from  the  fragrant  earth, 

Around  us  on  the  shadowed  lea, 

A  million  trills  had  birth, 

Which  tinily  did  interfuse 

And  to  the  heavens  upburn, 

While  downward  Night  her  dusks  and  dews 

Poured  from  her  poppied  urn. 


Ill 


Silent  and  still  we  sat;  her  cheek 
Pressed  mine, — i'  the  other's  arms 
Each  folded;  rythmically  did  speak 
The  beached  waves'  low  alarms; 


92  IN  THE  GLOAMING 

The  refluent  wave  which  aye  assailed 
The  pebbles  beneath  our  feet ; — 
Over  us,  amethystine  veiled, 
Night  bended  down  to  greet 


IV 


The  breathing  earth  with  still  embrace; 
The  brooding,  thrilled  delight, 
The  living  lushness  and  the  grace 
Of  warm  midsummer  night. 
And  so  our  souls  fell  into  chime 
With  earth  and  sky  and  sea; 
So  did  our  sentient  summertime 
Melt  in  mute  ecstasy. 


And  then  she  spoke, — her  words  came  low 
As  the  soft-lapping  tide; 
Fervent  as  Evening's  pulsing  glow, 
My  sweet-voiced,  sea-born  bride; 
High  words  of  love  and   light  as  pure 
And  kind  as  Heaven's  own  dew; 
Words  that  shall  comfort  and  endure 
My  last  life  journey  thru. 


VI 


And  while  we  lingered  paled  the  light, 
Dusk's  curtains  were  drawn  down ; 
Passed  o'er  the  placid  wave  the  Night, 
And  o'er  the  dreaming  down 


IN  THE  GLOAMING  93 

Her  sables  moved;  but  in  that  world, 
Our  hearts,  the  light  still  burned; 
The  petals  of  our  souls  unfurled, 
And  forth  to  Heaven  upturned. 


vn 


And  thru  our  bosoms  throbbed  the  heart 

Of  breathing  Nature's  God; 

One  were  we  with  the  spheres,  a  part 

Of  star  and  wave  and  sod; 

Comrade  with  eldest  yearnings  blown 

Thru  sentient  pipes  of  Pan, 

To  noblest  dreams  of  earth  full  grown, 

The  God-ward  tread  of  Man. 


VIII 

Oh  life,  oh  love,  ye  are  the  same 

To  souls  born  free  and  true! 

Oh  pure  heart  faith,  words  cannot  frame 

What  the  rapt  eye  may  view! 

Far  from  earth's  dull  material  sounds 

The  still  small  voice  is  heard, 

How  oft  the  rude  world's  discord  drowns 

Heaven's  sweet  star-lighted  word! 


CANADIAN    THANKSGIVING    HYMN 

DOWN  all  the  changes  of  the  years, 
Across  earth's  mingled  joys  and  tears, 
The  stars  of  endless  progress  shine; 
The  centuries,   O   Lord,   are  Thine! 

Thy  hand  the   sovereign  gifts  of  peace 
Bestows  with  bounteous,  rich  increase; 
The  hearts  of  nations  move  to  Thee 
As  towards  the  moon  the  midnight  sea. 

The  star   that   rose  o'er   Morning  Land 
Doth  now  with  clearer  beam  expand; 
Old  dreams  come  true — oh,  wondrous  spell 
Thy  word  of  love,  Emanuel! 

Now   Faith,   like   Noah's   wandering    dove, 
The  drear  wide  waste  of  creeds  above, 
Bears  back  unto  her  refuge  ark 
Her  token  o'er  the  waters  dark. 

But  chief  of  those  Thy  love  hath  blest 
Are  we,  the  English  of  the  West; 
With   filled   and   overflowing  hands 
The  Benjamin  of  Nations  stands. 

O,  thanks  supreme  are  due  to  Thee, 
Who  brought  us  forth  across  the  sea, 
And  taught  our  souls  to  feel  and  know; 
Where  Truth  could  build  and  Freedom  grow! 
94 


CANADIAN  THANKSGIVING  HYMN        95 

Still  runs  the  sturdy  Standish  strain, — 
Still   glows   the  patriot  heart  of  Vane 
In  us, — the  old  Cromwellian  will 
In  us  is  warm  and  vital  still. 

What   though   the  horoscope  of  fate 
Points  out  fresh  dangers  to  the  state, 
Thy  mercies  oft  our  path  have  crossed, 
Our  trust,  like  Gideon's,  was  not  lost. 

Great  cause  for  many  thanks  have  we, 
A  land  at  peace,  a  Nation  free; 
From  North  to  South,  from  East  to  West, 
Above  all  nations  we  are  blest. 

Blest  in  our  heritage  and  increase, — 
Blest  both  in  faction  and  in  peace, — 
Blest  more  than   Israel  in  her   prime, 
This  new,   this  true   Hesperian   clime. 

With  no  faint  hope  for  our  young  land, 
We  lay  our  futures  in  Thy  hand ; 
For  blessings  past  we  worship  Thee, 
And  for  Thy  bounties  yet  to  be. 

Though  fate's  dark  frown  should  cloud  Thy  face, 
Keep  for  us,  Lord,  Thy  heart  of  grace; 
Our  lives  are  Thine;  Thy  Gospel's  ray 
Lights  up  our  new  Thanksgiving   Day! 


THE   HOLLYHOCKS 

SOME  space  beyond  the  garden  close 
I  sauntered  down  the  shadowed  lawn; 
It  was  the  hour  when  sluggards  doze, 

The   cheerful,    zephyr-breathing    dawn. 
The  sun  had  not  yet  bathed  his  face, 

Dark  reddened  from  the  night's  carouse, 
When  lo,  in  festive  gypsy  grace 

The  hollyhocks  stood  nodding  brows. 

They  shone  full  bold  and  debonair — 

That  fine,  trim  band  of  frolic  blades; 
Their   ruffles,   pinked   and  purfled    fair, 

Flamed  with  their  riotous  rainbow  shades. 
They  whispered  light  each  comrade's  ears, 

They  flirted  with  the  wooing  breeze; 
The  grassy  army's  stanchest  spears 

Rose  merely  to  their  stalwart  knees! 

My   heart   flushed   warm   with   welcome   cheer, 

They  were  so  royal  tall  to  see ; 
No  high-placed  rivals  need  they  fear, 

All  flowers  paid  them   fealty. 
The  haughtiest  wild  rose  standing  near 

Their    girdles    hardly   might    attain; 
They  glowed,  the  courtiers  of  a  year, 

Blithe  pages  in  the  Summer's  train! 

Their  radiance  mocked  the  ruddy  morn, 

So  jocund  and  so  saucy  free; 
Gay  vagrants,   Flora's  bravest  born, 

They  brightened  all  the  emerald  lea. 
96 


THE  HOLLYHOCKS  97 

I  said :    "Glad  hearts,  the  crabbed  frost 
Will  soon  your  sun-dyed  glories  blight; 

No  evil  eye  your  pride  has  crossed, 
You  know  not  the  designs  of  night. 

"You  have  not  thought  that  beauty  fades; 

It   is   in  vain  you   bloom  so  free; 
While  you  are  flaunting  in  the  glades 

The  gale  may  wreck  your  wanton  glee." 
They  shook  their  silken  frills  in  scorn, 

And  to  my  warning  seemed  to  say, 
"Dull  rhymester,  look!   'tis  summer  morn, 

And  round  us  is  the  court  of  Day!" 


CALIFORNIA 

BRIDE  of  the  Sun,  thou  beautiful  Queen  of  the  limitless 
West, 
A  tiara  of  glittering  snowpeaks  o'er  thy  proud,   imperial 

crest; 

With  thy  veil  of  vines  and  flowers,  and  eyes  of  eternal  blue, 
From  the  Occident  greeting  the  Orient,  heir  of  the  Old 
and  New. 


California  crowned  with  summer,  thou  fairest  of  fair  two- 
score, 

Great  is  thy  name  amid  nations,  bright  marvel  of  mountain 
and  shore; 

With  gaze  fixed  full  on  the  future  or  lifted  to  Hope's  glad 
skies, 

The  stars  of  a  cloudless  heaven  reflected  in  thine  eyes. 

At   thy    feet   the   Ocean  casteth   his   broad   and   burnished 

shield, 
For  thou  stretchest  a  scepter  of  iron  over  his  wave-strewn 

field; 
And  thy  ichor  of  life  takes  fire  from  the  glow  of  thy  mighty 

heart, 
As  from  thy  lips  of  passion  the  peans  of  triumph  start. 

On   thy   robes   the  perfume  of  roses  lingers   the   live-long 

year, 

And  the  dream-winds  of  the  ocean  make  music  in  thine  ear; 

98 


CALIFORNIA  99 

Child-mother,  of  years  most  fruitful,  whose  breasts  o'erflow 

with  milk, 
The  East  shall  sue  for  thy  favor  with  spices  and  gems  and 

silk. 


Yet,  O  thou  peerless  beauty,  tho  dowered  with   Heaven's 

high  grace, 
Dream  not  of  a  cloudless  future — the  meed  of  a  faultless 

face  ; 
For  evil  hath  tainted  thy  blood,  and  the  petulance  of  thy 

hand 
May  turn  a  curse  upon  thee  and  blast  thy  bounteous  land. 

Rise,  rise  in  strength  majestic,  young  Titaness  of  the  West, 
And   forge  thyself   a  cuirass  of  the  gold  that  adorns  thy 

breast; 

Temper  thy  sword  of  justice  in  Freedom's  sacred  fire, 
And  slay  with  heart  unflinching  the  dragon  of  thy  desire. 

Smite  with  the  edge  of  thine  ire  that  dragon  of  soulless 

greed  ; 

So  shalt  thou  leave  safeguarded  the  heritage  of  thy  seed; 
So  shall  plenty  descend  like  dew  and  the  fair  and  fruitful 

earth 
Requite  with  lavish  largesse  the  life  that  gave  thee  birth. 

Anoint  thy  soul  with  vigil,  thou  bright-haired  matron- 
knight; 

Win  fairly  thy  crown  of  honor,  bear  bravely  thy  shield  in 
flight; 

So  Peace  may  o'er  thy  conquest  her  choicest  blessing  spread, 

And  wreathe  with  the  orange  blossoms  the  laurel  round  thy 
head. 


ioo  CALIFORNIA 

Then  will  thy  star  resplendent  burn  on  the  brow  of  Morn ; 

The  Aurora  of  life  new-waking,  discarding  her  robes  out- 
worn; 

In  the  virginal  beauty  of  Truth,  mid  the  nations  radiant 
stand, 

The  charm  of  a  brighter  heaven — the  joy  of  an  ampler 
land! 


TO   THE    POETS 

OH,  poets,  brothers,  though  the  world,  unheeding 
Grudges  us  all  things  save  its  care  and  pain  ; 
Know  our  probation  is  the  spring-time  seeding — 
Our  tears  the  warm  and  fertilizing  rain. 

Make  firm  your  choice!  should  we  be  slaves  to  Mammon, 
To  take  the  flesh  pots  from  his  sweaty  hand? 

Better  Heaven's  manna  in  the  land  of  famine! — 
Better  the  desert  thirst,  the  lonesome  sand! 

Should  we  forego  our  ill-paid  love  and  hoping, 
For  Wealth's  and  Power's  delirium  and  fears? 

In  recreant,  careless  sloth  should  we  be  dropping 
The  soiled  rosary  of  the  silver  years? 

Ye  faithful  hearted,  what  is  Pride's  indenture 

To  those  who  Heaven  and  Nature's  secrets  share? 

We  have  our  Shakespere — he  will,  peradventure, 
Show  us  the  heights  where  laurels  grow  most  fair. 

Let  us  not  fail  in  word,  in  just  ambition; 

Nor  solely  use  the  prophet's  voice  to  please ; 
Nor  spend  the  golden  thought  in  cheap  attrition 

Of  trifling  themes  and  turbid  fantasies. 

On,   minstrels, — cheer   the   van, — march   uncomplaining! 

Ye  are  God's  favorite  children,  for  we  feel 
Perpetual  spring  within  our  spirits  reigning, 

Though  frosts  of  age  may  on  our  locks  congeal. 

101 


102  TO  THE  POETS 

Pale  watchers  for  the  Light — in  the  new  reaping 
Men  shall  adore  each  lambent,  deathless  name! 

Ye  patient  ones — a  wealth  of  smiles  and  weeping 
The  world  shall  pay  in  homage  to  your  fame ! 

Yes,  all  the  tissued  dreams  of  Fancy's  leading, 

The  gold-wrought  threads  of  song  our  rapture  wove, 

Are  raiment  to  man's  naked  human  pleading, 
Girded  with  sacrifice  and  clasped  with  love. 


THE  SLUMBER 


SHE  paled  away  like  some  bright  flower, 
In  Autumn's  chill, 

Before  the  storm  unchains  its  power, 
At  winter's  will. 


She  sleeps — nor  all  life's  fevered  dream 

Disturbs  her  rest, 
As  pulseless  as  the  thin  moonbeam, 

That  lights  her  breast. 


10 


ONE    KIN    ARE    WE 

WE  all  are  sons  of  English  land, 
From  Britain  to  New  Zealand's  strand ; 
From   isles  of  spice  and   far  Cathay 
To  realms  of  occidental  day. 
From  shore  to  shore,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Throughout  all  earth  one  kin  are  we! 
One    kin,    undoubted,    faithful,    free, 
In  our  redoubted  Liberty! 

We  own  the  wealth  of  half  the  world ; 
Our  sails  on  every  sea  unfurled 
Waft  treasures  priceless  and  untold; 
Ours   are    the   fabled   shores   of   gold! 
In  every  land,  on  every  sea, 
On   foreign  strands,   one  kin   are  we! 
One   kin,    illustrious   still   to   be 
In  our  industrious  Liberty! 

How  bright  the  stars  of  empire  shine 
Above  palmetto,  oak  and  pine! 
How  the  full  groves  of  orange  trees 
Are  rustling  in  fair  Freedom's  breeze! 
Our  realms  of  oceaned  industry 
Show  to   the  world  one  kin   are  we! 
One  kin  of  blended  fame  are  we, 
Born  to  one  splendid  Liberty! 

The  Slav,  the  Teuton,  and  the  Gaul, 
Our  strength  and  splendor  dwarfs  them  all; 
104 


ONE  KIN  ARE  WE  105 

They  quarrel  o'er  their  conquered  lands — 

Earth  groans  beneath  their  armed  bands; 

Aloof  in  calm  supremacy 

We  bide,  because  one  kin  are  we! 

One  kin  of  fearless,  proud  degree, 

Guarding  our  peerless  Liberty! 

Freedom    regains   each    lost   estate 

From  out  the  grudging  hold  of  Fate, 

The  peaceful  triumphs  of  her  rule, 

Arts,  science,  law,  the  church,  the  school; 

Our  patron  saint  of  husbandry 

Is  she,  because  one  kin  are  we! 

One  kin — one  towering,  wide-spread  tree, 

With  flowering  boughs  of  Liberty! 

Old   England's  glories   bloom   o'er  earth; 
They  bourgeon  forth  in  constant  birth! 
The  stars  that  o'er  Columbia  shine, 
The  Pleiads  o'er  the  Canadian  pine, 
The  Austral  cresset  blazing  free, 
Now  light  the  world;  one  kin  are  we! 
One  kin,  far-famed,  of  proud  degree, 
Led  by  our  star-flamed  Liberty! 

The  earth's  redemption  draweth  nigh! 
Hark!  as  the  dowerless  nations  sigh, 
The  rush  of  Freedom's  firm  set  feet 
Resounds    down   each    insurgent   street! 
Her  banner  rolls  out  broad  and  free — 
We  lead  the  van!     One  kin  are  we! 
One  kin — one  valorous  constancy — 
Yes,  one  chivalrous  Liberty ! 


THE  VISION 

'^I^WAS  twilight  hour;  I  sat  in  darkened  mood; 

A     "Would  that  the  world  would  yield  me  more  of  good," 
I   sadly  mused,   when,   close   at   my   right   hand 
My  guardian  genius  seemed  to  me  to  stand. 

His  face  was  calm,  compassionate,  and  mild, 

He  gazed  on  me  and   all  so  sweetly  smiled, 

A  paly  radiance  strayed  across  the  room, 

Like  flickering  moonbeams  through  a  covert  gloom. 

He  placed  his  hand  upon  my  bended  head; 
"Look  up,  my  child,"  in  pure,  low  tones  he  said; 
I  looked,  and  wonderingly  I  gazed  again, 
The  room  seemed  filled  with  a  triumphal  train. 

Each  figure  in  the  dim  light  loomed  and  shaped, 

Then  crossed  and  vanished  where  the  shades  were  draped; 

And   as  they  to  my  gazing  passed   away, 

My  sweet-faced  genius  low  to  me  did  say: 

"These  are  the  phantoms  of  thy  youthful  hope, 
They  enter  not  within  thy  manhood's  scope; 
Fair   cherished   ideals  of   life's   early   day, 
Lo,   one  by  one,   they  slowly  fade  away. 

"Look  thou  once  more!"  again  I  raised  mine  eyes; 
There  passed  a  figure  clad  in  splendid  guise; 
He  eyed  me  with  a  shrewd,  cold  gaze  of  stealth; 
"Not  thine,"  the  genius  said,  "his  name  is  Wealth." 

106 


THE  VISION  107 

A  stately  presence  next  did  cross  me  by; 
Proud  was  his  mien  and  threatening  was  his  eye; 
One  short,  contemptuous  glance  he  on  me  cast  ; 
"This  one  is  Power,  and  lo,  he  too  has  passed!" 

I  looked   again — a  delicate  perfume 
Of  rose  and  jasmine  wandered  through  the  room; 
There  came  a  maiden  all  bedeckt  with  flowers, 
Sweeter  than  those  e'er  grown  in  Flora's  bowers. 

Her  eyes  were  lustrous  as  the  stars  of  night, 
And  graceful  wras  her  form  as  sylph  of  light; 
She  held  me  spell-bound  in  delicious  charm; 
Sweetly  she  smiled  and  waved  her  lily  arm. 

Yet  passed  she  on — bewildered  and  amazed 

I  earnestly  within  the  darkness  gazed ; 

The  genius  touched  me,  "She  too  doth  remove; 

Not  thine,"  he  said,  "men  call  this  siren,  Love." 

I  heaved  a  sigh — with  rapt  look  and  profound, 
One  slowly  came,  his  head  with  bays  was  crowned ; 
And  fair  as  is  the  opening  rose  of  morn, 
A  changeful  radiance  from  his  form  was  borne. 

Yet  simple  was  his  garb — a  glance  he  turned 
Upon  my  anxious  eyes,  that  through  me  burned ; 
With  eager  lips  and  outstretched  hand  his  name 
I  cried  aloud,  "take  all,  but  leave  me  Fame!" 

Yet  even  as  I  spake  he  passed   away; 
My  head  in  anguish  in  my  hands  I  lay; 
When  a  low  voice  upon  the  other  side 
Said  softly,  "Grieve  not,  I  with  thee  abide!" 


io8  THE  VISION 

I  raised  mine  eyes  which  vanished  hope  had  seared; 
My  calm-faced  genius  all  transformed  appeared; 
Celestial  radiance  all  his  visage  veiled, 
And  scars  showed  where  his  hands  had  once  been  nailed. 

"My  child,"  he  said,  "the  world  for  thee  has  nought; 
Wealth,  power,  and  fame  are  all  too  dearly  bought; 
Even  love  itself,  unsanctified  by  me, 
Would  lure  thy  soul  from  higher  destiny. 

"Know  thou  thy  good — what  hallows  mortal  life 
Is  'gainst  ourselves  to  wage  a  conquering  strife; 
Learn  thou  of  me  thy  frailties  to  subdue, 
And   be  in   all   things   to   thy   vision   true." 

He  ceased,  and  all  his  form  grew  heavenly  fair, 
Then  slowly  faded   through   the  still   night  air; 
Humbled  and  awed  my  spirit  inly  bowed, 
And  as  he  passed  the  moon  brake  through  a  cloud. 


THE    BIRTHPLACE    OF   FREEDOM 

WHERE'S  Freedom's  birthplace?  it  should  be 
Some  spot  of  earth  most  fair  to  see! 
What  doth  she  name  her  natal  home? 
Some  minster  pile?  some  palace  dome? 
In  what  court,  castle,  tower  or  hall, 
Did  her  first  lisping  accents  fall? 
Not  within  bannered  walls  of  stone 
Doth  Freedom  any  birthright  own! 

No!  she  was  not  with  life  endowed 
Among  the  mighty  and  the  proud — 
Neither  midst  kings  nor  conquerors  found, 
Nor  lords  nor  prelates  capped  and  gowned; 
The  haughty  barons,  earls,  and  peers, 
Oppressed  and  starved  her  infant  years: 
She  hath  not  there  a  heritage  known, — 
No  birthright  there  may  Freedom  own! 

Perchance  her  nascent  strength  grew  then 
Midst  demagogues  and  lawless  men? 
Mayhap  midst  anarchy  and  crime 
Was  nurtured  first  her  youth  sublime? 
In  realms  by  selfish  faction  torn 
Perhaps  the  radiant  maid  was  born? 
Where  such  rash   tyrants  sway  the  throne 
No  heritage  can  Freedom  own! 

It  may  be,  then,  in  ways  of  trade 
Her  earliest  infant  footsteps  strayed, 
109 


no        THE  BIRTHPLACE  OF  FREEDOM 

Where  Commerce  with  her  golden  chain 

Links  shore  to  shore,  joins  main  to  main? 

No!  she  was  poor.     No  costly  bales 

No  argosies  with  swelling  sails 

Were  hers — for  humble,  scorned,  alone, 

No  birthright  there  could  Freedom  own! 

No!  her  first  smile  she  did  bestow 
Neither  on  wealth  nor  power,  nor  show; 
But  long  ago  her  tender  form 
Was  rescued  from  a  night  of  storm. 
From  out  her  peril  lifted  then 
High  in  the  arms  of  lowly  men, 
A  love  child,   sacred,   though   unknown, 
Midst  them  might  Freedom  heritage  own! 

Lo,  proud  even  of  her  humble  birth 
Are  now  the  great  ones  of  the  earth; 
As  eager  now  her  court  to  fill 
As  erst  their  hatred  wrought  her  ill. 
But  now,  as  then,  her  guardian  stands 
The  son  of  toil  with  hardened  hands; 
As  when  in  youth,  now  fairly  grown, 
To  him  her  life  doth  Freedom  own ! 


THE  GOLDEN-ROD 

ALONG  the  bronze-banked  roadside  as  I  stray 
What  is  it  braids  the  front  of  Autumn  day? 
The  fields  are  brown,   the  wild  flowers  shrunk  in  blight, 
Save   where   this   glory   trails   upon   my   sight; 
O  Golden-Rod! 
'Tis  you  who  greet  me  as  I  walk  abroad ! 

As  forth  I  saunter,  sunk  in  moody  dreams, 
Around  my  path  your  way-fire  pageant  gleams; 
While  starring  all  my  dusk  of  musing  drear, 
You  hold  me  high  your  wealth  of  nodding  cheer; 
O  Golden-Rod! 
Moving  my  fancy  as  along  I  plod. 

You  love  by  common  human  paths  to  dwell; 
Unlike  the  hermit  shrunken  to  his  cell, 
You  eye  with  interest  human  toil  and  strife 
Undaunted  by  the  dust  of  passing  life; 
O  Golden-Rod ! 
Blooming  your  brightest  on  the  hardest  sod. 

Your  free-willed,  fearless  presence  showeth  me 
Worth  bravely  cheerful  midst  adversity, 
How  life  may   through  the  current  of  the  day 
Its  bloom  of  kindly  service  wear  alway; 
O  Golden-Rod! 

May  manhood  blossom  like  your  rude  birth-clod! 

in 


ii2  THE  GOLDEN-ROD 

Fair  yellow  jewel,  the  last  in  Autumn's  crown! 

No  selfish  tongue  should  voice  your  pure  renown, 

For  without  wage  you  charm  the  public  eye, 

A  poet  of  the  thankless,  sombre  sky! 

O  Golden-Rod! 

How  many  heedless  feet  have  past  you  trod. 

Dear  wayside  flower  with  waving,  feathery  plume, 
Uncherished  still,   life's   two-fold   way   illume! 
Your  graceful  charm  thru  Autumn's  waning  date 
Outranks  the  cultured  garden's  proud  estate; 
O  Golden-Rod! 
Lamp  of  the  highway,  lit  by  hand  of  God ! 


JANUARY 

A  WINTER'S  day:  the  landscape  veiled  in  white 
Shimmers  within  the  morning's  lucent  ray; 
There  is  no  cloud  in  all  of  heaven's  height; 

There  is  no  leaf  nor  bird  upon  the  spray; 
The  winds  alone   are  wandering,  while   we 
Warm  sheltered  sit  in  low-eaved  privacy. 

Gaily  the  flames  leap  up  the  chimney's  throat; 

The  huge  gnarled  back-log  crackles  on  the  hearth ; 
Hark,  how  the  wheel  hums  round  its  cheerful  note! 

It  is  the  season  of  the  New  Year's  birth. 
All  nature  greets  us  smiling;  ah,  may  Time 
Spin  out  our  threads  to  such  a  sweet-toned  chime! 

This  life  is  all  our  portion;  little  we 

Know  of  the  strife  and  passion  of  the  mart; 

The  dull  round  of  our  quiet  cares,  the  tree, 
The  corn  and  kine  make  up  our  peaceful  part; 

The  city's  pride  and  longing  pass  us  by;— 

How  white  the  world  is  and  how  blue  the  sky! 


THE   BARREN    FIG-TREE 

A  BARREN  fig-tree  in  the  vineyard  stood. 
The  Lord  in  passing  saw  its  want  of  good 
And  said,  to  the   vine-dresser  turning  round, 

"Cut  this   tree   down,  why   cumbereth   it   the  ground?" 

"Behold  have  I  not  planted  it  with  care? — 
Hath  it  not  had  the  rain  and  sun  and  air, 

Doth  it  not  fare  alike  with  all  of  these — 
Why  doth  it  not  bring  forth  like  other  trees?" 

Then  the  vine-dresser  said  with  anxious  mien, 
"Thy  care  and  keeping,  Lord,  are  fully  seen, 

Spare  it  a  little  longer  tho,  I  pray, 

For  it  to  Thee  may  bring  forth  fruit  some  day. 

"Lo,  now  it  hath  a  goodly  branch  and  root; 

It  groweth  yet  too   rank  for  any  fruit; 
Its  spurious  blossoms  all  are  blasted  quite; 

I'll  prune  it,  Lord,  that  it  may  bloom  aright." 

Then  said  the  Lord,  "Vine-dresser,  great  thy  care 
Hath  been  of  all  my  trees,  beyond  compare; 

I   give  the  barren  fig-tree  to  thy  will; 
The  choicest  fruit  is  of  redemption  still." 


114 


QUESTIONS    OF   LIFE 

WHAT  is  Knowledge?    'Tis  the  beholding 
The  blue  through  a  cloudy  strife. 
What  is  Wisdom?     The  unfolding 
Of  the  secret  calyx  of  life. 

What  is  Life?    The  daily  Postman's 

Packet  and   tarnished  sleeve. 
What  is  Death?     The  churlish  dustman 

Who  trundles  his  cart  at  eve. 

What  is  Pleasure?    The  froth  on  the  beaker 

Of  the  sparkling  vintage  of  joy. 
What  is  Pain?     A  vengeance  wreaker; 

A  servant  the  gods  employ. 

What  is  Honor?     A  kite  that  flieth 

High  as  the  gale  expands. 
What  is  Fame?    A  tongue  that  lieth — 

A  foot-print  upon  the  sands. 

What  is  Happiness?     Perfumed  essence 

Born  of  the  dew  and  light. 
What  Despair?     A  shrouded  presence 

That  sits  by  the  hearth  at  night. 

What  is  Chance?    The  heart  of  a  lover, 

A  shuttle  that  weaves  the  air. 
What  is  Fate?     The  coffin  cover; 
.  The  Pope  in  his  curule  chair. 
"5 


ii6  QUESTIONS  OF  LIFE 


What  is  Law?    The  planks  and  fitting 

Of  Noah's  expedient  Ark. 
What  is  Faith?    The  white  dove  flitting 

Over  the  waters  dark. 

What  is  Creed?     A  sea-shore  cavern 
Where  sounding  billows  sweep. 

What  is  Time?    A  wayside  tavern 
Where  travellers  greet  and  sleep. 

What  is  Conscience?     A  Judge's  warrant; 

A  vice-shaming  polished  shield. 
What  is  Genius?    A  proud  Knight-errant 

Tilting  against  the  field. 

What  is  Friendship?    Convenient  barter; 

A  heart-fire  guide  at  night. 
What  is  Love?    Life's  chart  and  charter; 

An   Eagle's   tireless   flight. 

What  is  History?     The  moon  investing 

A  midnight  forest  march. 
What  is  Truth  ?    The  keystone  resting 

Upon  the  eternal  arch. 


TO   THE   BUMBLE-BEE 

YOU  little,  busy,  bustling  fellow, 
In  doublet  striped  with  brown  and  yellow, 
I  wonder  if  your  fair  employment 
Is  such  fine,  fanciful  enjoyment; 
Dost  ever  weary  of  your  sweets 
And  long  for  other  tasks  and  meats, 
Like  human  creatures,  who,  God  wot, 
Are  alway   grumbling  o'er   their  lot, 
Even  should  their  heavy  hoarded  money 
Be  heaped  up  higher  than  your  honey; 
"Hard  food  for  Midas,"  you  can  beat  it, 
Your  wealth  is  fragrant  and  you  eat  it. 
You  do  not  feed  your  idle  ones 
As  rich  folk  oft  do  lazy  sons; 
For  social  needs  you  think  it  kinder 
To  probe  them  with  a  keen  reminder. 
In  the  republic  of  your  hive 
To  live  is  but  to  work  and  thrive; 
And  though  you're  chivalrous  to  ladies 
All  idle  drones  must  go  to  Hades. 
You're  very  circumspect  indeed,  sir, 
And  lay  up  plenty  for  your  need,  sir; 
But  are  not  stigmatized  as  niggard 
As  careful   folk  sometimes   are   figured, 
Nor  are  to  selfishness  inclined 
If  rightly  I  can  trace  your  mind; 
But  yet,  my  little  buzzing  elf, 
You're  much  like  us  who  live  for  pelf. 
You  have  no  conscience  to  be  bought, 
117 


u8  TO  THE  BUMBLE-BEE 

But  yet  your  honey's  all  your  thought. 
What  then?  you   earn   and   keep  your  right 
To  live — small  sensual  delight! 
Your  life  is  temperate,  proper,  just, 
The  only  thought  you  have  is  must. 
And  so  I  hold  no  right  to  blame; 
You  put  me  and  my  kind  to  shame, 
And  teach  our  selfish  ones  at  ease 
They're  not  so  wise  or  good  as  bees. 


THE    POOR   APPLE   WOMAN 

THE  busy  throng  and  loaded  wain 
Surged  by  the  warehouse  wall  ; 
Around  her  in  the  drizzling  rain 

She  drew  her  tattered  shawl; 
Unnoticed  by  a  look  or  word, 
She  cowered  o'er  her  scanty  hoard. 

Her  eyes  betrayed  a  heart  that  pined; 

Her  lips  with  cold  were  blue; 
Her  face  was  wan  and  haggard-lined 

And  wore  privation's  hue; 
Whoe'er  hath  been  of  woman  born 
Mighty  pity  one  so  sad  and  lorn. 

But  Want  upon  her  careworn  brow 
Had  stamped  his  cruel  seal ; 

No  hope  of  happy  fortune  now 
Did  those  sad  eyes  reveal; — 

A  leaf  swept  by  the  winds  of  fate, 

Trampled   at   Pleasure's   palace   gate! 


119 


CHILDLESS 

MY  little  daughter  Nellie 
Would  be  eighteen  to-day, — 
Gone  these  ten  years,  I  tell  ye, 

It's  been  a  dreary  way! 
My  little  daughter  Nellie, 
As  was  so  sweet  and  gay! 

If  you'd  a-seen  her,  mister, 
The  light  of  these  dim  eyes! 

They    called    her   "The    Little    Sister"- 
The  plaguey  tears  will  rise! 

How  often  in  dreams  I've  kissed  her, 
My  deary,  now  in  the  skies! 

Pretty?     God  never  thought  of 
A  thing  more  pure  and  fair! 

It  seemed  like  she  was  wrought  of 
The  sunshine,  dew  and  air. 

Ah,  now  of  her  I've  nought  of 
But  memories  everywhere! 

Memories  that  haunt  me  ever 

As  round  the  place  I  go; 
A  heart  so  kind  and  clever, 

A  life  so  all  aglow 
With  youth  and  joy,  I  never 

From  now  to  death  will  know. 
120 


CHILDLESS  121 

Why,  sir,  the  birds  would  listen 

But  for  to  hear  her  sing; 
The  wild-flowers  seemed  to  glisten 

As  tho  touched  by  an  angel's  wing 
When  she  passed — earth's  now  a  prison, — 

No  joy  in  anything! 

The  dear  white-violets  cover 

In  spring  her  churchyard  bed, 
And  a  wild-rose  clambers  over 

The  headstone  at  her  head; 
Each  fair  thing  was  her  lover, — 

To  me  and  them  she's  dead! 

Ah,  well!  I  mustn't  sadden 

Your  heart,   so   lightsome  yet; — 
At  times  I  seemed  to  madden 

At  loss  of  my  little  pet; 
Nothing  my  heart  can  gladden; 

Old  age  cannot  forget. 


MY    THREE    FRIENDS 

(Lines  on  a  Photograph  of  Three  Dogs) 

THREE  friends  are  these — adherents  of  my  flag; 
Stanch  followers,  courtier,  learned  clerk,  and  wag; 
Good  friends,  all  three,  as  e'er  did  woman  own, 
As  ever  loved  a  woman  or  a  bone ; 
Friends,  thoro  friends,  thru  every  pulse  and  breath, 
Friends  for  all  life;  perchance — who  knows? — past  death! 
Each  to  his  service  brings  a  fresh  delight 
And  feels  no  virtue  in  his  love's  requite. 
Mark  you  the  right-hand  comrade — what  an  air 
Of  high-bred  grace!  his  head  thrown  up  in  air. 
How  like  the  love-locks  of  the  Cavaliers 
Falls  soft  the  peruke  of  his  silken  ears! 
And  how  the  silver  locket  at  his  breast 
Shines  like  the  order  on  a  silken  vest! 
He  is  a  cavalier !     Not  Charles'  court 
Held  one  of  braver  or  more  constant  sort; 
Who,  for  a  cause,  would  death  more  quickly  face 
Than  Hark,  my  prince  of  chivalry  and  grace! 
One  night — the  tale  I  will  not  dwell  on — he 
Saved  me  some  inconvenience — robbery — 
Or  was  it  murder?     Anyhow,  I  lay 
My  life  and  diamonds  to  his  love,  to-day. 

The  middle  one,  that's  Dick,  my  learned  clerk; 
He's  smaller  than  the  others — what  a  perk 
Of  knowingness  sits  on  his  supple  ears! 
He  is  the  brains  of  the  three  worthy  peers; 

122 


MY  THREE  FRIENDS  123 

Prim  as  a  maiden,  gentle,  but  so  quick 
To  catch  a  hint  or  learn  the  mannered  trick! 
Dick  knows  a  thing  or  two,  mayhap,  that  you 
Or  I,  my  friend,  scarce  fathom — yet  'tis  true 
Dick  has  no  speech  beyond  a  hoarse  "yeP>  yep !" 
And  language,  Sir,  articulate,  is  a  step 
Dogs  will  not  take  this  many  an  aeon — still 
Dick's  on  the  road  with  a  persistent  will. 

And  now,  my  third — the  one  that's  on  the  left; 

No  thoroughbred,  you  see!     Nature's  bereft 

Brownie  of  dignity  and  manners — note 

His   blunter   nose,   his  shagginess  of  coat, 

His  tongue  a-loll  and  two  big  sprawling  paws, 

And  no  clean  cut  expression  to  the  jaws. 

Yet  Brownie,  none  the  less,  shall  have  his  due, 

Prince  of  good  fellows!     Ay,  and  princely  true! 

Never  a   better,   merrier  heart  was  born ; 

With   Brownie's  love  no  life   could  be   forlorn; 

See,  what  an  honest,  jolly,  sonsie  face! 

He's  prime!  the  first  Mark  Tapley  of  his  race! 

So,  you  perceive,  I'm  rich  in  three  good  friends; 

Friends?     More  than  friends — they're  lovers;  my  amends 

To  you,  my  brave  Hark,  Dick  and  Brownie!  you 

Reck  not  who  else  is  to  your  mistress  true, 

Nor  what  her  fortunes  are,  and  in  her  smile 

You're  happy,  with  no  lurking  thought  of  guile; 

You've   a   capacity    for   love,    I    say, 

That  has  no  limit — any  popinjay 

Can  swear  his  love's  eternal — you've  no  way 

But  to  act  out  your  love  from  day  to  day. 

***** 

You  envy  them  their  task?  the  trade  is  free; 
I  love  my  dogs.     You  understand,  I  see. 


THANKSGIVING    HYMN 

A  CHEERLESS,  bleak  November  morn 
Broke  lowing  o'er  that  band  forlorn 
Those  grave,  stern  Pilgrims,  robed  in  gray, 
Who  kept  our  first  Thanksgiving  Day. 

Between  lone  shore  and  lonelier  wood 
What  trials  had  their  manhood  stood! 
Through  sorrow,  care  and  toil  arose 
The  infant  state  girt  round  with  foes. 

But  tho  rough  wood  and  barren  strand 
Close  hemmed  that  sad  faced,  toiling  band— 
Tho  in  what  hour  no  soul  could  tell 
Might  rise  the  Narraganset  yell — 

Sundered  in  that  inclement  time 
From  English  kin  and  England's  clime, 
Yet  still  our  fathers  blest  the  sea 
That  fenced  their  dear  bought  liberty. 

For  even  while  foes  and  cares  assailed, 
Faith  grew  not  dim  nor  courage  failed; 
Then  rose  the  voices  rapt  and  calm, 
That  raised  our  first  Thanksgiving  psalm. 

***** 

O  wondrous  change!   how  wide  and   fair 
The  inheritance  their  offspring  share! 
Yes,  all  is  changed — save  faith 'on  high, 
The  freeborn  heart,  the  sea  and  sky. 
124 


THANKSGIVING  HYMN  125 

That  sea  and  sky  now  greet  a  strand 
Where  Freedom  still  doth  stedfast  stand, 
While  by  her  side  her  sisters  twain, 
Peace,  Plenty — smile  o'er  shore  and  main. 

From  out  that  stern  and  narrow  rule 
Have  grown  the  Pulpit,  Press  and  School; 
Whose  firm  foundations  stayed  the  shock 
Of  untoward  fate  on  Plymouth  Rock. 

As  in  that  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
As  in  war's  fratricidal  day, 
Now  in  the  hour  of  halcyon  calm, 
We  raise  the  old  Thanksgiving  psalm ! 


A   WITHERED   ROSE 

THE  rose  that  late  in  its  passion  slumbered 
Is  dead, — and  its  bloom  is  withered  to-day, 
And  hopes  that  a  longing  heart  has  numbered 
Are  torn,  like  these  faded  leaves,  away. 

Ah  me,  for  the  dream  that  awakes  to  sorrow; 

For  the  baseless  trust  that  has  bloomed  to  die ; 
The  life  of  a  love  that  is  dead  to-morrow; 

For  the  outward  smile  and  the  inward  sigh. 

The  tears  that  fall  cannot  bring  back  savor 
To  the  petals  once  gay  with  the  morning  dew, 

Nor  the  prayers  of  an  errant  heart  earn  favor 
Of  joy  to  the  soul  to  its  memories  true. 


126 


BETRAYED 

YOU  vowed  to  me  your  love  was  like  the  sea, 
As  wide,  as  free,  as  fathomless,  as  strong, 
And  in  that  trust  I  gave  my  all  to  thee, 
A  woman's  heart,  still  unforeseeing  wrong. 

I  blame  you  not,  your  nature  stands  revealed; 

My  love  was  wasted,  for  you  could  not  know 
For  what  deep  source  my  cup  of  joy  was  filled; 

What  hidden  springs  now  feed  my  bitter  woe. 

You  could  not — ah,  had  I  but  found  it  out 
In  time  to  flee  from  Love's  unreasoning  snare, 

Regret  had  not  then  ta'en  a  pledge  from  Doubt 
Nor  innocent  Hope  submitted  to  Despair. 

Alas,  that  the  ignoble  still  must  be 

The  scourge  of  generous  hearts,  and  ever  bind 

The  Christ  of  the  Ideal  to  the  tree, 

Who  comes  to  work  redemption  for  mankind. 


127 


THE   VOTIVE   ROSE 

SWEET  Rose,  thou  gem  of  yestermorn, 
All  blushing  from  thy  stem  wast  torn; 
Red  as  the  love  pulse  of  my  heart, 
And  dewy  as  my  tears  that  start. 

My  tears  are  not  of  grief  but  joy; 
Henceforth  no  fears  shall  me  annoy; 
He  said,  the  love  light  in  his  eye, 
"How  sweet,  dear  Rose,  for  her  to  die." 

"For  her  to  die !"  ah,  happy  she ! 
Dear  Rose,  thy  brethren  of  the  tree 
Might  envy  thee  thy  parting  breath, 
Love's  envoy  glorified  in  death. 

So  long  as  life  abides  thy  claim 
Is  cherished,  symbol  of  love's  flame; 
Thy  withered   form  shall  daily  press 
This  leaf  where  I  my  love  confess. 

And  when  I  die — thy  faded  bloom 
Shall  grace  my  passage  to  the  tomb, 
And  he  shall  kiss  thy  leaves  and  say, 
"Be  with  her  till  her  waking  day." 


128 


SOCIETY  AND  ART 

FROM  Mother  earth  the  potter's  crafty  hand 
Moulds  into  shape  the  vase's  flowing  line; 
Then  art  around  the  surface  doth  expand 
In  bossage,  color,  tracery,  and  design. 

The  first  is  elemental — like  the  child, 
Cast  in  the  matrix  of  his  age  and  race; 

The  second  like  the  man — by  dreams  beguiled, 
By  action  formed,  with  passion's  warmth  and  grace. 

And  both  are  tried  by  fire — until  are  fixed 
Indissolubly  whilst  one  shard  remains, 

The  colors  art  and  social  forms  have  mixed 
In  clays  and  bronzes,  or  in  hearts  and  brains. 


129 


LINES    ON   A    PICTURE 

THE  guests  are  gone — my  lady  there  is  sitting 
Between  the  lions  of  her  palace  gate, 
A  frame  for  peerless  beauty  most  befitting, 
The  power  that  heralds  her  ancestral  state. 

And  from  her  hand  the  soul  of  sound  has  glided 
In  rhythmic  tremors  o'er  the  starred  lagoon ; 

Her  spirit  seems  'tween  earth  and  heaven  divided — 
Ah,  may  her  heart  re-echo  to  love's  tune! 


130 


"JUST   AS    HIGH   AS    MY   HEART" 

HIGH  as  my  heart  my  lovely  lady  stands — 
Her  eyes  gleam  like  twin  sister  stars  of  even, 
Borrowing  their  beauty  from  the  depths  of  Heaven. 
Like  tapering  coral  are  her  milk-white  hands  ; 
Her  lips  like  roses  red  that  newly  leaven. 
High  as  my  heart  my  lovely  lady  stands! 

High  as  my  heart  my  lovely  lady  stands 
Beneath  a  bower  of  clambering  brier  roses; 
The  fawning  sunbeam  on  her  form  reposes 

And  burnishes  her  braided   chestnut  bands 
And  like  a  golden  shrine  her  grace  encloses. 

High  as  my  heart  my  lovely  lady  stands! 

High  as  my  heart  my  lovely  lady  stands — 

But,  ah,  her  worth  than  mine  how  truer,  higher! 
For  like  as  gold  that  hath  been  tried  by  fire 

Her  steadfast  heart  meets  all  life's  stern  demands. 
Yet  this  I  say — nor  make  kind  love  a  liar — 

High  as  my  heart  my  lovely  lady  stands! 


THE    PRISONER    OF   LOVE 

THEY  who  in  Love's  strong  meshes  lie 
May  swear  the  bonds  are  sweet — not  I. 
Now,  Eros,  turn  thy  shafts  away, 
My  breast  to  them  is  proof  to-day. 

With  youth  thy  influence,  too,  hath  flown; 
The  fair  to  me  is  fair  alone. 
Thy  Mother's  self  with  all  her  art 
Has  now  no  power  to  move  my  heart. 

Only  one  homage  I  avow, 

The  Attic  maid  with  laurelled  brow; 

Thy  yoke  and  tribute  I  refuse ; 

I  yield  sole  service  to  the  Muse. 

The  Muse,  ah,  she's  the  maid  for  me ! 
Whose  breath  like  summer  winds  is  free, 
Whose  eyes  are  stars  of  Heaven,  whose  dress 
Is  of  all  lines  of  loveliness. 

Who  perfume  brings  of  fields  and  hills; 
Whose  voice  is  of  the  mountain  rills; 
Whose  smile  is  like  the  radiant  beam 
Of  some  light  dancing,  lucent  stream. 

The  Muse  is  always  constant?     No! 
Her  woman's  waywardness  will  show, 
But  when  she  greets  me  then  I  feel 
She  loves  me  aye  through  dearth  and  weal. 
132 


THE  PRISONER  OF  LOVE  133 

Yet  even  while  I  her  claim  allow 
I  prove  a  recreant  to  my  vow; 
Despite  of  proud  resolves,  betrayed 
By  Eros  thru  an  earthly  maid. 

The  subtile  King  of  hearts!  he  sent 
His  deadliest  power  of  blandishment ; 
He  roused  the  slumbering  fires  to  life 
That  held  my  youth  in  bonds  and  strife. 

A  maiden  sweet,  a  maiden  fair, 
With  heaven-blue  eyes  and  sunny  hair, 
In  whose  low  voice  and  winning  smile 
I  note  the  love-god's  cunning  wile. 

My  Muse,  too,  in  the  plot!  again 
Complacent  to  the  dual  reign; 
If  she  now  joins  against  me  all 
Is  up,  my  shield  and  falchion  fall. 

Why,  Eros,  warfare  dost  thou  wage 
Against  grey  hairs  and  growing  age? 
Still  thy  relentless  bow  is  strung 
'Gainst  wise  and  simple,  old  and  young! 

It  recks  not  to  despise  thy  power; 
None  knoweth  when  may  come  his  hour. 
Now,  tyrant,  lay  thine  arrows  by; 
Once  more  thy  helpless  captive,  I. 


IN  MEMORIAM 
On  the  Death  of  Alfred  Tennyson 

WHOM  would  ye  choose?  for,  lo,  the  king  is  dead 
Who  latest  swayed  the  realm  of  English  hearts; 
He  whose  revered  and  silver  crowned  head 

Lies  dreamless  midst  the  thunder  of  your  marts; 
Your  Alfred  of  the  calm  and  lofty  mien, 
His  fingers  clasping  Shakespere's  Cymbeline. 

Buried  in  the  bowels  of  that  ancient  crypt, 
Amidst  the  dust  of  your  illustrious  great, 

He  rests,  the  gracious-hearted,  honey-lipped, 
Peer  of  the  grandest  of  your  race  or  state; 

Yea,  Prince  of  more  than  kingdoms,  age  or  clime; 

A  Monarch  whose  dead  sceptre  conquers  time! 

For  even  when  the  trembling  hand  of  age 

Dwelt  on  the  strings,  no  harsh,  uncertain  sound 

Smote  false  your  hearts;  the  venerable  Mage, 
The  Master-minstrel  all  your  being  found; 

Revived  your  souls  to  the  rich  bloom  of  youth, 

And  charmed  with  music  the  high  paths  to  truth. 

Ah,  ye  may  dew  with  tears  the  burial  stone, 
And  strew  your  tributes  o'er  his  stainless  hearse ; 

Voice  the  far  echo  of  his  godlike  tone; 

Embalm  his  memory  in  your  fragrant  verse; 

All — all  in  vain — no  Star  of  Song  doth  rise 

Above  the  grave  where  your  great  Laureate  lies. 


IN  MEMORIAM  135 

The   laurel  wreath  of  Spenser  should  not  grace 

A  front  less  high  than  this  majestic  brow, 
The  stamp  imperial  graved  upon  the  face, 

Fervently  lighted  with  the  poet's  vow; 
And  with  the  outgrowth  of  a  fertile  heart 
Blooming  and  fruiting  in  the  close  of  art. 

The  hand  that  might  have  grasped  yon  silent  lyre, 
And  struck  its   fateful  strings  with   strenuous   might, 

Joined  yester-year  the  pure-toned  English  choir, 
Who  wear  their  amaranths  in  the  halls  of  light; 

Ruder  the  touch,  yet  from  those  fingers  ran 

Strains  that  could  rouse  or  sink  the  heart  of  man. 

But  now,  the  Arthur  of  your  poet  realm, 

Both  Lancelot  and  Galahad  of  rhyme, 
Whom  will  ye  find  to  wear  his  winged  helm 

Or  ride  his  charger  down  the  lists  of  time? 
The  new  Pendragon — where  can  such  be  found? 
Alas,  not  one  of  all  your  Table  Round! 

Let  none  the  storied  chords  of  that  clear  harp 

Restrike  in  service  dissonant  and  vain; 
Ye  will  but  cause  the  world  to  mock  and  carp; 

Ye  will  but  sound  a  void  of  grief  and  pain; 
Hang  up  the  shining  wires  above  his  head 
And  leave  your  laureate's  crown   upon   the  dead. 


ROBERT    BROWNING 

KNIGHT  in  the  vanguard  of  knowledge,  peer  of  the  king- 
dom of  thought, 
Prophet,  and  priest,  and  bard,  thou  hast  sung  for  futurity, 

wrought 

For  the  ampler  after-time,  for  the  kindlier  soul's  increase, 
For  the  higher,  humbler  faith,  for  the  purest,  heavenliest 
peace. 

Thou  hast  hidden  thy   gold   and   rubies   in  thy  quartz  of 

rough-veined  verse; 
Thou  hast  probed  the  secret  soul  with  thy  questions  grave 

and  terse; 
Thou  turned'st  the  lamp  of  thy  mind  on  the  palimpsest  of 

the  heart; 
Thou  didst  strain  in  the  bonds  of  Time,  now  Eternity's 

ward  thou  art. 

Thy  sheaf  of  years  hung  full  of  the  green  hope  of  thy 

youth, 

Nurtured  by  secret  dews  from  the  heaven  of  love  and  truth  ; 
No  blast  of  malice  can  shake,   nor  Time's  envious  mace 

assault 
Thy  spacious  structure  of  song,  arched  over  earth's  storied 

vault. 

Thou  didst  spurn  the  Egyptian's  lure,  thou  didst  cleave  to 

the  race  enslaved; 
Thou  didst  dwell  unknown  to  those  for  whose  weal  thou 

hadst  tyrants  braved; 

136 


ROBERT  BROWNING  137 

Thou  beheldst  the  burning  bush,  thy  feet  the  mount  had 

trod, 
In  the  lair  of  the  angry  cloud  thou  stoodst  face  to  face  with 

God! 

The  glory  of  song  in  thy  heart  lit  thy  face  with  auroral  ray ; 
Thou  heldst  our  wisdom  in  trust,  the  chief  of  transition's 

day; 

Unbated  by  churlish  age,  thy  lone,  far-sighted  stand 
Was  the  Pisgah  heights  of  song  o'erlooking  the  Promised 

Land. 

Rest,  crowned  with  the  proud  assurance  thy  verse  was  not 

wrought  in  vain, 
Though  the  century  turn  aside  to  its  idols  of  pleasure  and 

gain; 
Thou  wilt  be  heard  aright  when  the  lutes  and  the  laughter 

have  ceased 
And  the  soul  is  alone  with  its  stars,  undazed  by  the  glare 

of  the  feast. 

This  leasehold  thou  hast  exchanged  for  a  wider  and  fadeless 

life; 
The  swaddling  bands  of  flesh  thou  hast  cast  to  a  world  of 

strife ; 
Thou  hast  traversed  the  waters  of  Death;  thou  hast  found 

thy  chosen  mate, 
The  sibyl  of  burning  song,  the  revealer  of  words  of  fate. 

Where  the  blue  Venetian  night  falls  a  spangled,  huge  con- 
cave, 

Did  thy  venturous  spirit  wing  forth  like  a  prayer  from  a 
dome-crowned  nave; 

Like  Arcturus  throned  afar  in  a  mist  of  twinkling  shine 

Starts  thy  star  on  the  heaven  of  song,  loved  guest  of  the 
trophied  Nine! 


TO    SIDNEY   LANIER 

DEAR  brother  minstrel,  Heaven-crowned  spirit  friend, 
Who  saw  unrolled  the  apocalypse  of  earth, 
Whose  soul  was  star-lit,  music-charmed   from  birth, 
Who  didst  through  aether  send 
The  unwearied  gaze  of  half-requited  eyes, 
Longing  for  higher,  holier  mysteries — 
O  wheresoe'er  art  thou — 
Within  what  starry  sphere 
Thy  spirit  bourgeons,  hear! 
Bend  down  through  space  and  touch  mine  eyes  and  brow. 

Kiss  these  dull  eyes  awake  that  they  may  view 
Like  thee  all  beauty,  the  involved  charm 
Of  Nature,  which  thy  spirit  only  knew, 
Or  knew  with  angels — O  thou  bright-souled  seer 
Who  resteth  on  God's  never-tiring  arm, 
And  seeth  this  fair-world  a  sparkle  shining  clear 
Amidst  the  constellations — Thou  whose  pen 
Burnt  golden  characters  for  soul-blind  men, 
Furrowing  thy  page  with  light, 
(Heaven  all  thy  heart  requite!) 

Sweet  spirit,  that  bear'st  faint  scar  of  sin,  bend  down  thy 
Heaven  entranced  ear! 

This  dull  material  round  hath  need  of  thee! 
The  foison  greed  of  Wealth  besets  our  life; 
With  earth-blind  eyes  we  see 
Not  the  bright  quietude  but  the  cloudy  strife. 
That  heaven,  which  to  the  ancient  world  seemed  near, 
Is  but  a  waste  of  doctrine,  dry  and  drear; 

138 


TO  SIDNEY  LANIER  139 

A  world  by  dogma  vext ; 

A  world  with  doubts  perplexed ; 

The  dizzy  heights  we  gain; 

Our  weary  eyes  we  strain 

And  miss  the  glory  shining  in  the  plain; 

Some  cloud  is  ever  shutting  from  our  eyes 

The  soul-enhancing  visions  vainly  sought  for  in  the  skies! 

We  walk  as  in  a  trance ; 

We  gaze  with  eyes  askance 

Upon  our  fellows  in  the  crowded  street; 

We  crush  life's  flowers  beneath  our  heedless  feet, 

And  self,  with  its  unending  cares, 

Enlists  our  faith,  our  hopes,  our  hearts,  our  prayers; 

We  struggle  to  be  free, 

But  a  sad  fatality 

Breaks  in  across  our  souls  and  hides  the  star 

Of  promise  even  from  the  good  and  wise; 

The  elemental  war 

Environs  us  and  takes  us  for  its  prize. 

Thou  vanished  in  thy  noon! 

Nature  is  niggard  of  such  souls  as  thine, 

Fearing  her  mysteries  would  be  told  too  soon ; 

Thou  youngest  of  the  radiant  Shelley  line — 

Hadst  thou  but  lived  to  be 

Full  prophet  in  the  new-time  poesy, 

What  fair-found  heights  of  knowledge  had  we  gained! 

We  had  not  now  remained, 

Groping  abroad  with  unconsidered  sight, 

Missing  the  clearer  light 

Of  truth,  to  blindly  fall  on  Hope's  inconstancy. 

But  not  all  unfulfilled 

Thy  earthly  mission  or  thy  pledge  of  song, 

Nor  didst  thou  knock  in  vain  upon  our  hearts; 


TO  SIDNEY  LANIER 

The  house  thy  hands  hath  built 

For  tired  souls  to  rest  in  bideth  strong 

As  adamant,  and  braves  the  shocks  of  fate 

And  winds  of  custom ;  at  its  open  gate 

Sweet  Confidences  meet  hospitably 

Wayfaring  spirits  and  invite  them  in, 

And  light  their  loads  of  sin, 

And  tell  them  many  rapturous  noble  things  of  thee. 

Minstrel  of  earth  and  sky, 

Mak'st  thou  no  reply? 

Say,  is  our  mortal  quest  and  longing  vain? 

Hast  thou  in  happiness  forgot  the  throng 

Of  work-day  lives  on  this  low-lying  plain? 

Nor  wilt  thou  lend  them  of  thy  new-found  song? 

Perhaps  'tis  better  so; 

Perchance  we  dare  not  know, 

Nor  thou  disclose  what  meets  thy  finer  ear — 

Or  how  bliss  tranced  souls  unfold  and  grow, 

Or  how  the  favored  Isles  of  Heaven  appear. 

Yet,  sweet  ghost,  hear! 

Oh,  send  some  largesse  of  thy  wealth  divine — 

Some  tempered  draught  of  thy  rapt  spirit's  wine 

Into  this  earthly,  wayward,  dim-lit,  heart  of  mine! 


MARLOWE 

WHAT  a  fine  frenzy  of  poetic  might 
Shows  Marlowe,  rising  to  his  passion's  height! 
Throughout  all  space  his  song  triumphant  soars, 
Fathoms  all  passion,  all  delight  explores. 
His  muse  culls  all  things  delicate  and  rare 
To  adorn  her  vestments  or  to  gem  her  hair; 
Plucks  the  bright  bay  leaf  from  its  highest  bough, 
Wet  with  Castalian  dews,  to  deck  her  brow. 
With  burning  speed  she  scours  the  hill  of  fame 
To  win  the  laurel  of  a  world's  acclaim; 
And  would,  so  daring  is  her  high  emprise, 
Reach  at  the  stars  to  pluck  them  from  the  skies. 
Leaving  but  half  the  wondrous  story  told 
Of  that  fine  fable  of  true  love  of  old, 
Marlowe  flung  down  his  mighty  gift  and  life, 
His  proud  heart  cloven  by  a  scullion's  knife! 


141 


REQUIESCAT! 
(On  the  Death  of  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.) 

NAUGHT  may  be  said 
O'er  the  still  presence  of  the  illustrious  dead 
To  forge  one  star-point  to  his  fair  renown, 
Or  weave  one  laurel  in  his  fadeless  crown, 
To  grace  his  time-worn,  white  and  reverend  head — 
Compounded  now  with   dust, 

And  with  the  grieving  Autumn  strewing  it  with  leaves- 
Who  held   our  hearts   in   loving   fetters   bound, 
A  husbandman  of  many  kinds  of  sheaves, 
Now   himself  garnered   to  the  greater  store 
Of   sages   gone   before, 

Out  of  the  heartache,   care    and   earthly  lust; 
Who  like  a  true  knight  hath  fulfilled  his  trust, 
Singing  himself  to  sleep, 
And  facing  fearlessly  the  deep  profound, 
And  smiling  still  upon  our  eyes  that  weep, 
That  now  shall  nevermore 
Behold  him  face  to  face  upon  Time's  echoing  shore. 

Yet  fitly  may  a  bard  of  younger  race, 
Trained  to  a  newer  habitude  of  rhyme, 
Turn  with  his  own  thin  laurel  to  the  place 
Where  rests  the  veteran  of  the  older  time; 
The  man  of  stiff  set  lance  and  trenchant  blade, 
Naught  venal,  naught  afraid, 

With  all  the  great  heart  of  the  Northern  clime, — 

142 


REQUIESCAT!  143 

Then,  midst  the  worthier  tributes  resting  there 
(And  on  his  lips  a  prayer), 
Hang  his  slight  chaplet  on  the  cypress  bough, 
In  token  of  his  faith,  his  reverence  and  vow. 

For  of  the  sons  of  song  she  nurtured  forth, 

New  England,  mother  of  renowned  men, 

He  most  combined  the  fiber  of  the  North 

With  the  South's  flexile  grace, 

And  from  its  cloudless,  sun-bathed  lurking  place 

His  ardent  fancy  leaped  upon  the  page 

And  stamped  its  impress  there  for  every  future  age. 

And  he  was  last  of  that  triumphant  throng 

Who  voiced  the  earlier  Genius  of  their  land, 

And  spake  to  souls  in  terms  they  understand, 

Nor   grudged   impassioned   song, 

But  felt  the  thrill  of  Nature  through  their  veins; 

Who  smote  venality,  pretense  and  wrong, 

Nor  counted  up  their  gains 

By  Custom's  tally,  but  to  the  larger  rule 

Of  the  immortal  bards,  put  their  young  art  to  school. 

Therefore,  no  passing  fame 

Shines  out  from  each  deep-graved,  illustrious  name, 

Carved  in  our  tree  of  Liberty;  for  they 

Were  nurtured  in  no  dilettante  day, 

But  from  the  forge  and  flame 

Of  civil  strife  they  wrought  their  strenuous  claim, 

And  woke  an  echo  that  resounds  alway, 

Through  every  realm  and  clime, 

Far  down  the  lengthening  avenues  of  Time. 

Perchance  they  greet  him  now 

With  the  new-twisted  amaranth  on  his  brow, 

And  welcome  him  to  their  high-placed  retreat, 


144  REQUIESCAT! 

And  to  their  rose-bowered  seat 

In  the  Elysium  of  the  poet-band, 

And  take  him  by  the  hand, 

Those  comrades  whom  he  knew  and  loved  in  life, — 

The  Concord  seer, 

And  he  who  sang  the  wave  bright  Merrimac, — 

Lowell  the  generous  hearted,  and  that  soul 

Endeared  to   every  fireside,  and  him  austere, 

Bryant,  the  first  of  ours  who  struck  his  harp  notes  clear. 

But  not  alone  the  sons  of  song  shall  claim 

The  soul  of  him  who  charmed  forth  smiles  or  tears ; 

He  owes  not  to  their  muse  alone  his  fame 

And  all  the  coming  honors  of  the  years; 

Her  plainer   sister  claims  an   equal   share 

Of  glory  he  doth  wear; 

And  in  her  train  he  finds  some  loved  compeers, — 

The  sweet  souled  Hawthorne,  whose  deep-reading  eyes 

Drew  Magic  from  the  skies, 

And   Irving,   genial  heart  and  kindly  hand, 

And  Cooper,  painter  true  of  his  loved  mountain  land. 

Yet  he  his  other  self  hath  left  behind, — 

The  priceless  legacy  of  his  hand  and  brain; 

The  wit  that  falls  in  showers  like  diamond  rain, 

The  gayety  that  to  all  care  is  blind; 

And  his   rare,  pregnant  wisdom,  Iris  sweet, 

With  all  the  children  of  his  soul  who  still  his  fame  repeat. 

Then,  ye  who  loved  him  from  your  days  of  youth, 

Make  no  vain  lamentation  for  the  dead; 

For  he  hath  left  the  mantle  of  his  truth 

And  he  who  wills  may  wear  it  in  his  stead; 

But  ne'er  with  such  a  grace, — 

For  ne'er  again  the  old-time  cavalier 

Will  flash  his  sword  in  rhyme  and  chant  his  rondel  clear. 


LINES 

AT  THE  END  OF  A  PROSE  ESSAY  ON  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 
ON  THE  COMPLETION  OF  HIS  EIGHTY-THIRD  BIRTHDAY. 

THUS  have  I  writ  with  fixed,  impartial  aim 
To  give  no  undue  tribute,  o'erdue  blame; 
Grudging  the  bard  no  honest  meed  of  praise, 
And  yet  not  spendthrift  of  my  loyal  bays; 
Now  may  the  Muse  her  smiling  favor  bring, 
And  strike  the  light-stringed  measure  which  I  sing. 

Briefly  I  choose  the  close-linked  formal  line, 
The  honored  mode  of  bards  well  named  divine; 
O'er  it  old  Chaucer  took  his  jocund  road; 
Along  it  Marvell's  forceful  measures  flowed ; 
Dryden's  tense  genius  swelled  its  tide  of  song; 
Upon  it   Pope's  terse  reason  swept  along; 
O'er  its  dark  stream  the  torch  of  Byron  burned; 
Twice  to  its  flow  Keats'  shallop  fancy  turned: 
It  bore  along  its  rippling,  limpid  breast 
Hunt's  courtly  theme  and  Morris'  antique  zest; 
Thine,  Holmes,  its  swift,  its  sunbright  sparkling  strain 
That  fairly  limns  the  landscape  of  thy  brain; 
That  picturesquely   turns   in   play  of   thought, 
In  flowery  bends  of  pleasant  fancy  caught, 
Smooth  in  its  current  as  its  tide  is  clear, 
And  ever  manly,  cultured  and  sincere; — 
The  rhymed  pentameter — that  tireless  hack 
That's  borne  a  horde  of  bardlings  on  its  back, 

145 


146  LINES 

Drumming  their  dull,  unvarying  rataplan 
On  every  theme  from  Cosmos  to  a  fan, 
Their  thick  octavos  in  oblivion  sunk, 
Gone  to  the  flame,  the  ragman,  and  the  trunk. 

Last  of  a  line — behold  the  veteran  stand, 

The  lance  of  wit  still  quivering  in  his  hand; 

With  locks  all  whitened  now,  yet  holding  still 

A  cheerful  courage,  an  enduring  will; 

Last  of  a  race  of  bards; — too  proud  to  climb 

Into  the  saddle  of  new-fashioned  rhyme; 

Too  wise  to  value  art  o'er  lucid  sense; 

Too  brave  to  draw  the  curb  on  eloquence; 

Not  always  deep,  perchance,  in  flow  of  song, 

But  full-breathed,  tuneful,  fluent,  limpid,  strong; 

A  voice,  gay,  genial,   grave — still   true  to  guide 

From   erring   paths   hot   youth's   impatient   stride; 

A  humor  keen,  yet  with  no  rankling  smart; 

Its  champagne  sparkling,  bubbling  from  the  heart; 

A  wit  perennial  and  a  fancy  free, 

The  bloom  of  Spring  on  life's  long  wintered  tree; 

A  heart  as  tender  as  a  lover's  thought; 

A  falcon  spirit,  fearless,  firmly  wrought; 

Quick  to  detect,  yet  tardy  to  condemn, 

Well  armed  with  pungent,  pointed  apothegm; 

Shrewd  Yankee  mind  with  graft  of  learning's  fruit; 

An  ear  fine-tuned  as  Blondel's  joyous  lute; 

As  sly  and  quaint  as  Shandy  in  his  style, 

With  something  of  the  Frenchman  in  his  smile; 

At  fourscore  still  a  bright-eyed,   kindly  man, 

Part  courtier-cavalier,  part  Puritan; 

Revered  where'er  the  rose  of  culture  grows, 

From  Astral  summer  to  Alaskan  snows; 

A  school-boy's  eye  beneath  his  doctor's  hat, 

Our   love-crowned   poet,    laurelled   Autocrat! 


"THREESCORE  AND  TEN" 

BY   RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARD 

WHO  reach  their  threescore  years  and  ten, 

As  I  have  mine,  without  a  sigh, 
Are  either  more  or  less  than  men — 
Not  such  am  I. 

I  am  not  of  them;   life  to  me 

Has  been  a  strange,  bewildered  dream, 
Wherein  I  knew  not  things  that  be 
From  things  that  seem. 

I  thought,  I  hoped,  I  knew  one  thing, 

And  had  one  gift,  when  I  was  young — 
The  impulse  and  the  power  to  sing, 
And  so  I  sung. 

To  have  a  place  in  the  high  choir 

Of  poets,   and   deserve  the  same — 
What  more  could  mortal  man  desire 
Than  poet's  fame  ? 

I  sought  it  long,  but  never  found ; 

The  choir  so  full   was,   and  so  strong 
The  jubilant  voices  there,  they  drowned 
My   simple   song. 

Men  would  not  hear  me  then,   and  now 

I  care  not,  I  accept  my  fate. 
When  white  hairs  thatch  the  furrowed  brow, 
Crowns  come  too  late ! 

The  best  of  life  went  long  ago 

From  me;  it  was  not  much  at  best; 
Only  the  love  that  young  hearts  know, 
The   dear   unrest. 


i48       TO  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD 

Back  on  my  past,   through  gathering  tears, 

Once  more  I  cast  my  eyes,  and  see 
Bright  shapes  that  in  my  better  years 
Surrounded  me! 


They  left  me  here,  they  left  me  there, 

Went  down  dark  pathways,  one  by  one, — 
The  wise,  the  great,  the  young,  the  fair; 
But  I  went  on ! 


And  I  go  on !     And,  bad  or  good, 
The  old  allotted  years  of  men 
I  have  endured,  as  best  I  could — 
Threescore  and  ten ! 


TO  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD 

THREESCORE  AND  TEN 

NOT  so,  you  do  your  craftsmen  wrong, 
They  love  you,  they,  the  earnest  men; 
All  hail,  our  veteran  chief  of  song, 
Threescore  and  ten! 

Though  time  has  blanched  and  thinned  your  hair, 
Shaken  your  strength  and  dimmed  your  gaze, 

Greenly  you  yet  the  laurel  wear, 
As  in  old  days. 

And  if  the  shallow,  vain  acclaim 
Has  passed  you  by  for  feebler  men, 

Know  the  tried  corps  of  younger  fame 
Revere  your  pen. 


TO  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD        149 

True  fame  is  yours,  abiding,  strong; 

This  Time  will  mould  in  just  relief, 
When  all  the  meretricious  throng 

Who  wear  the  leaf 

Will  vanish  from  the  thoughts  of  men, 

Like  those  of  Delia  Cruscan  time, 
With  all  their  fluttering  pride  of  pen 

And  puny  rhyme. 

Our  old  man  eloquent  be  thou! 

Still  with  wise  counsels  light  our  ways, 
Ungrudging  still  some  worthy  brow 

Its  budding  bays. 

Then  grieve  not  o'er  the  passing  time, 

Friends  gone,  the  brilliant,  wise,  and  brave; 

Our  country's  richer  for  your  rhyme 
From  wave  to  wave! 

Why  not  ?    Truth  still  breeds  reverent  hearts ; 

This  land  doth  proud  traditions  nurse; 
As  long  as  blooms  our  rose  of  arts 

Lives  Stoddard's  verse! 


I 


LIFE  AND  DEATH 

REIGN  beyond  the  bourne  of  Fate  and  Time, 
Through  all  the  Present  I  echo  of  the  Past, 

All  things  but  God  are  in  my  leash — I  climb 
From  star  to  star  and  quench  them  all  at  last — 

I  blast  the  blooms  of  promise  with  a  breath," 

Vaunts  Death. 

"I  am  the  spirit  in  matter — the  All-Searcher, 
I  am  driven  like  surf  by  one  deep-moving  force, 

Even  in  the  grasp  of  Death  my  hope  I  nurture, 
Enswathing  Love  is  both  my  end  and  source, 

Peace  is  my  handmaid  and  my  thrall  is  Strife," 

Chants  Life. 


150 


SONGS   AND    LYRICS 


HEY,   HO,  ROBIN! 

(A  MADRIGAL) 

HARK,  d'ye  hear  the  Robin's  early  greeting 
O'er  the  clover  blossoms  gemmed  with  dew; 
All  the  gladness  of  his  heart  repeating, 

Heart  that  never  care  or  sorrow  knew. 
Over  upland,  lawn  and  orchard 

His  clear  pipe  is  heard: — 
"Sweetheart!     Sweetheart!" 

Hey,  ho,  Robin ;  hey,  ho,  happy  bird ! 

In  his  russet  coat  and  vest  of  scarlet, 

With  his  jaunty  crest  and  glittering  eye, 
Was  there  ever  such  a  merry  varlet? 

Look  upon  him  and  forget  to  sigh. 
Ah,  but  he's  the  blithesome  rover! 

His  glad  pipe  is  heard: — 
"Sweetheart!     Sweetheart!" 

Hey,  ho,  Robin ;  hey,  ho,  happy  bird ! 

How  Sir  Malpert  loves  to  steal  his  dinner 

From  our  cherry  trees  across  the  way; 
He's  as  reckless  as  a  hardened  sinner; 

He's  a  prodigal  who's  always  gay. 
Rocking  on  the  topmost  branches 

Still  his  pipe  is  heard : — 
"Sweetheart!     Sweetheart!" 

Hey,  ho,  Robin ;  hey,  ho,  happy  bird ! 

153 


154  HEY,  HO,  ROBIN! 

Ah,  my  blithe  and  brave  fair  weather  fellow, 

Soon  again  to  milder  haunts  thou'lt  wend; 
When  the  leaves  are  turning  brown  and  yellow 

We  will  miss  our  early  morning  friend; 
There  thru   fields  of  endless  summer 

Will  thy  pipe  be  heard : — 
"Sweetheart !     Sweetheart !" 

Hey,  ho,  Robin ;  hey,  ho,  happy  bird ! 

How  those  fair  and  distant  shores  we'll  envy 

When  rough  Winter  drives  thee  from  our  clime; 
Hostage  to  the  summer  tho  we  send  thee, 

Thou  wilt  greet  us  in  thy  mating  time. 
Then  unto  thy  loved  one  calling 

Will  thy  pipe  be  heard : — 
"Sweetheart!     Sweetheart!" 

Hey,  ho,  Robin;  hey,  ho,  happy  bird! 


WRITTEN   FOR  A  CANADIAN   NATIONAL 
ANTHEM 

THE  banner  with  the  blood-red  field 
Flew  in  the  western  main; 
It  made  the  golden  Lilies  yield, 

It  curbed  the  pride  of  Spain; 
Till  kindred  blood  ungrateful  furled 

That  flag  of  broad  renown; — 
All  save  the  North- 
She  held  it  forth 

For  England's  ancient  crown; 
Brave  Canada,  thou  heldst  it  forth 

For  England's  empire  crown! 

Since  that  dark  day  in  many  a  fray, 

The  three  cross  banner  near, 
On  native  strand,  in  Transvaal  land, 

The   seven-fold   shield   flew   clear; 
When  the  Nor'west,  a  hornets'  nest, 

Came  buzzing  round  her  form, 
In  royal  ire  she  searched  with  fire 

That  mongrel,  stinging  swarm. 
With  dreadful  frown  she  stamped  them  down 

And  shook  her  sword  of  might, 
With  queenly  frown 
She  stamped  them  down, 

In  Death's  and  Hell's  despite. 

The  Trident  Matron  from  her  steep 
Looks  out  across  the  wave, 
155 


156        CANADIAN  NATIONAL  ANTHEM 

And  sees  beyond  the  distant  deep 

That  heritage  of  the  brave; 
Two  ocean  shores 
Ope  wide  their  doors 

To  worlds  both  old  and  new; — 
Thy  princely  hand 
Pledge,  Motherland, 

A  daughter  tried  and  true! 
No  slave  shall  stand 
Upon  thy  strand, 

O  daughter  proud  and  true! 

Of  nations  five  who  round  the  world 

Patrol  the  Seven  Seas, 
Of  scions  four  who  guard  the  door 

Of  British  destinies; 
Daughters  of  pith  who  peerless  front 

The  enemies  of  their  race, 
She  stands  the  first — tho  Gallic  nursed, 

She  hath  the  English  face. 
Then  here's  a  health, 
True  hearts  and  wealth, 

Fair  Canada,  to  thee! 
A  long  deep  health, 
Leal  hearts  and  wealth, 

Brave  Canada,  to  thee! 


LOVE    LEADING 

MY  love  she's  tripping  down  the  lane 
Amid  the  dews,  amid  the  dews; 
My  love  she's  stepping  down  the  lane, 
Fair  through  the  sunset's  golden  rain, 
Down  toward  the  fields  of  nodding  grain, 
Amidst   the  evening  dews. 

The  latticed  beams  between   the  boughs 
Play  o'er  her  hair,  play  o'er  her  hair; 

The   flattering  beams   between   the    boughs 

Light  up  her  snow  white  neck  and  brows; 

She   ne'er   to  me  such  bliss   allows, 
To  play  with  her  bright  hair. 

The  jealous  wild-flowers  she  doth  pass 
Are  scant  of  cheer,  are  scant  of  cheer; 

The   flaunting   field-flowers   she   doth    pass 

Now   shrink  their  crowns   amidst   the  grass; 

They  ne'er  have  seen  so  fair  a  lass; 
They  all  are  scant  of  cheer. 

The   timid  violets  nigh   the  path 
Nod  dainty  heads,  hod  dainty  heads; 

The  slim,  coy  violets  nigh  the  path, 

They  hold  for  her  no  selfish  wrath, 

Each  dear  to  her  a  kinship  hath, 
They  nod  their  fragrant  heads. 
157 


158  LOVE  LEADING 

The  blithe  wild  rose  on  thorny  stem 

Is  sad  in  fear,  is  sad  in  fear; 
The  bold  wild  rose  on  bending  stem 
Flutters    its   pink  pearl    diadem; 
'Twould    fain    her    beauteous    cheek    condemn, 

'Tis  wondrously  in  fear. 

The  star  of  Eve  that  warms  the  skies 
Doth  watch  my  dear,  doth  watch  my  dear, 

The  Evening  Star  that  studs  the  skies, 

It  knows  it  may  not  match  her  eyes; 

'Tis  standing  tip-toe  with  surprise 
Watching  my  dearest  dear. 

She  carols  to  the  perfumed  breeze 
So  sweetly  clear,  so  sweetly  clear; 

Her  pure  voice  lulls  the  perfumed  breeze; 

She  hushes  all  the  whispering  trees, 

She  soothes  to  sleep  the  loitering  bees, 
With  song  so  sweetly  clear. 


The  listening  linnet  lifts  his  head 
Behind  the  bough,  behind  the  bough ; 

The  gray-backed  linnet  bobs  his  head 

From  forth  his  thatched  and  leafy  bed, 

"I  cannot  sing  such  songs,"  he  said 
Beside  the  green  beech  bough. 

Was  ever  youth  so  blest  as  I? 

Love  leads   her  nigh,   Love  leads  her  nigh; 
There  ne'er  was  youth  so  blest  as  I; 
Her  glance  to  mine  makes  sweet  reply; 
She's  coy  as  fluttering  butterfly, 

For  that   Love  leads  her  nigh. 


LOVE  LEADING  159 

The  tell-tale  flow  invades  her  cheek; 

She  stills  her  song,  she  stills  her  song, 
The  rich,   red   glow  pervades  her   cheek; 
Her  eyes  are  playing  hide  and  seek; 
She   cannot   trust  her   lips  to   speak, 

Although  she's  stilled  her  song. 

Fair  traitor,  now  you're  mine  at  last! 

No  truce  will  I,  no  truce  will  I. 
Soft  hands,  sweet  face,  you're  ta'en  at  last! 
Behind  all  doubts  and  fears  I  cast; 
The  time  for  vain  delay  has  past, 

No  shamefaced  truce  will  I! 


A   SONG   OF   SUMMER 

AN  oriole  is  singing 
Her  anthem  clear  and  high ; 
A  blackbird  blithe  is  ringing 

Her  jubilate  nigh; 
I  watch  the  swallows  winging, — 
Shearing  the  azure  sky. 

The  dragon-fly   is  glancing 
Zigzag,  a  winged  spear; 

A  woodpecker   is  lancing 
An  elm-tree  bole  anear; 

How  wondrous,  how  entrancing, 
Are  all  I  see  and  hear! 

Around  me  is  the  humming 
Of  heavy-freighted  bees; 

Over   the  field   is  coming 

The  winsome  morning  breeze; 

This  is  the  time  for  summing 
All  soulful  ecstasies! 


In  such  a  place  and  season 
All    life   its   care   forgets; 

Come  Fancy,  loved  of  Reason, 
Look  at  my  tiny  pets, 

The  crickets,   black  as  treason, 
Clicking  their  castanets! 
1 60 


A  SONG  OF  SUMMER  161 

Like  a  Walpurgis  revel 

The  dream  of  life  flows  on; 
Across  the  lawny  level 

A  tender  haze  is  drawn; 
This  fair  scene  even  a  devil 

Would  love  to  look  upon! 

From  out  the  pale  blue  ether 

Glows  the  untarnished  sun; 
To  robe  her  heir  and  wreathe  her 

Hath  Spring  her  glories  spun, 
And  smiling  did  bequeath  her 

The  flowerets  every  one! 

'Tis  buxom,  regal  Summer, 

Her  fragrant  zone  unbound; 
With  minstrel  bird  and  hummer 

Of  many  an  infant  round; 
Of  zest  the  rhythmic  plumber, 

A  carnival  of  sound! 

But  yet  there  lacks  one  measure 

Of  joy  on  eye  and  ear, — 
A  smile  of  tender  pleasure, 

A  voice  of  gentle  cheer; 
This  were  the  lap  of  leisure, 

Sweetheart,  if  thou  wert  here! 


SAINT   CHRISTMAS 

SAINT  CHRISTMAS  still  is  hale  and  stout, 
His  welcome  grows  not  cold, 
Still  rings  his   royal   greeting  out 
Each  year  to  young  and  old. 

With  robe  of  fur  and  beard  of  snow, 

And  wreath  of  holly  green, 
And  with  a  paunch  like  bended  bow 

Or  lordly  soup-tureen; 

And  with  a  round  and  rosy  face 

As  any  friar  of  yore, 
Lit  with  a  kindly,  reverent  grace 

And  cheer  that  runneth  o'er. 

And  with  a  heart  all  sound  and  true, 

And  comfit-bag  well  lined — 
Sure  never  one  an  old  man  knew 

So  gay,  so  pleasant,  kind! 

Not  half  so  blithe   and  debonair, 

Nor  with  so  merry  a  voice; 
He  must  be  sure  a  child  of  care 

Whom  Christmas  can't  rejoice! 

He  must  be  lean  and  starved  of  soul 

As  any  o'er-driven  hack, 
He  must  be  sick  or  in  sad  dole 

Whom  Christmas   lures  not  back 
162 


SAINT  CHRISTMAS  163 

To  household  cheer  and  kindly  deed, 

And  simple  mirth  and  jest, 
To  tender  care  for  human  need, 

To  generous  faith  and  rest. 

What  time  the  merry  bells  ring  out 

And  all  the  ways  are  white, 
While  rises  glad  the  youthful  shout 

Beneath  the  holly  bright. 

Or  when  on  hallowed  Christmas-tide 

The  children,  brimmed  with  glee, 
Crowd  round  his  saintship's  special  pride, 

The  glittering  Christmas  tree. 

When  all  the  family  meet  once  more 

Around  the  groaning  board, 
And  Christmas  knocks  against  the  door 

Of  merchant,  peasant,  lord. 

And  entering  in  with  lusty  cheer 

Doth  o'er  the  feast  preside, 
And  lights  the  eye  and  tunes  the  ear 

And  sets  the  tongue  a-glide. 

And  hangs  the  treacherous  mistletoe 

Right  down  the  path  of  girls, 
That  brings  mishap  to  gallant  bow 

And  dainty  forehead  curls. 

Yes,  sure  he's  ill  and  far  from  gay, 

Ay,  bilious-green  and  pale, 
Who  turns  with  sullen  scorn  away 

From  Christmas  glad  and  hale. 


164  SAINT  CHRISTMAS 

From  Christmas  hale  and  holly-crowned 
And  full  three  yards  about, 

In  all  our  forty  States  around 
Is  none  so  jolly  stout! 

Is  none  so  dear  to  childhood's  heart; 

And  though  folk  dub  him  Nick, 
Of  all  the  saints  who  live  in  art 

He  is  the  prince  and  pick. 

He  is  the  merriest  saint  of  all 
Who  live  in  tale  or  song, 

And  they  who  on  blithe  Christmas  call 
Will  not  go  far  a-wrong. 

Long  may  he  bear  his  princely  pack 
Of  joys  both  great  and  small; 

Long  may  his  laugh  ring  joyous  back 
From  hut  or  palace  wall! 

And  long  may  we  who  joyful  take 
His  Yuletide  to  our  breasts, 

Live  kindly  for  the  old  chap's  sake 
And  keep  his  plays  and  jests. 


From  all  the  saints  of  olden  day, 

Matthew  to  Margery, 
Christmas  doth  bear  the  bell  away — 

Yes,  he's  the  saint  for  me ! 


"THE   SPRINGTIME   LINGERETH   LONG, 
LOVE" 

7  I  AHE  springtime  lingereth  long,  love, 

A     No  birds  are  in  the  bowers; 
No  early  primrose  after  the  snows 
Nor  violets  born  of  showers. 
But  everything  speaks  of  thee,  love, 
The  very  air  I  breathe 
Comes  wafted   to   me 
Over  the  lea 

With  messages  dear  from  thee,  love, 
Messages  dear  from  thee. 

Like  a  nun  asleep  is  the  earth,  love, 

Wimpled,  sombre,  and  white; 

Her  snowy  hands  pressed  above  her  breast 

And  with  snowy  robes  bedight. 

'Tis  winter  over  the  wold,  love, 

No  leaf  on  bush  or  tree; 

Yet  what  if  it  be, 

'Tis  nothing  to  me 

When  I  am  thinking  of  thee,  love, 

I  am  thinking  of  thee. 

The  sky  is  grey  with  clouds,  love, 
The  sun  puts  on  no  crown; 
His  radiant  hair  is  shorn  of  glare 
And  his  bright  face  wears  a  frown. 
But  let  him  frown  on  as  he  lists,  love, 
165 


166    "SPRINGTIME  LINGERETH  LONG,  LOVE" 

He  harms  not  thee  nor  me; 
The  light  of  our  skies  each  other's  eyes 
When  we  together  shall  be,  love, 
We  together  shall  be. 

There's  wisdom  enough  in  the  world,  love, 

To  freight  a  soul   for  heaven; 

But  the  wisdom  sages  have  known  for  ages 

Is  not  free  to  mortals  given; 

But  ours  is  free  as  the  sunshine,  love, 

And  rich  as  it  is  free; 

Life's  no  sweet  dole 

To   the   loveless  soul, 

As  it  is  to  thee  and  me,  my  love, 

As  it  is  to  thee  and  me. 


FAIRIES'   SONG 

HERE  we  to  the  midnight  green 
Speed  in  service  of  our  queen ; 
Frorri  the  ribbed  salt-sea  strand ; 
From  the  lonely  mountain  land; 
From  where   Ignis   Fatuus  strays 
Through  the  marshy  thicket's  maze. 

Here  we  o'er  the  moonlit  green 
Throng  at  bidding  of  our  queen; 
Guided  by  the  firefly's  lamp 
Through  the  night-tide  cold  and  damp; 
Till   the  white  stars'  beams  are  shorn 
And   the  cock  crows  shrill   at  morn. 

Here  we  on   the  bosky  green 
Yield  obeisance  to  our  queen; 
We  the  frisky  squirrels  teach 
Nuts  to  hoard   in  hollow  beech; 
Teach   the   brindled  bee   to   fly 
Honey  bag  beneath  her  thigh. 

Here  we  to  the  scented  green 
Bring  the  trappings  of  our  queen; 
Here's  a  crown  of  crystal  globe! 
Here's  a  purple  bat's  wool  robe ! 
Here's  a  throne  of  diamond  spar, 
And  a  moth-drawn  emerald  car! 
167 


168  FAIRIES'  SONG 

Here  we  on  the  bowered  green 
Hold   the  court  of   Fairy   Queen; 
Round  the  hamlets  raise  our   chant 
Ere  we  hie  to  wild  wood  haunt, 
Till  the  silver  crescent  dips 
In  the  wave  her  horned  tips. 

Here  we  on  the  tufted  green 
Dance  around  our  Fairy  Queen; 
They  we  are  who  hold  in  charm 
Gnomes  and  witches  from  their  harm; 
Creatures  born  of  Luna's  beams, 
Send  we  kind  hearts  happy  dreams. 

Here  we  on  the  painted  green 
Sing  around  our  Fairy  Queen; 
Elves  we  are  who  fill  the  boy 
With  his  springtime  wealth  of  joy; 
Teach   the  tender  maids  to  see 
Beauty  in  each  flower  and  tree. 

Here   we  on   the  freaked   green 
Pledge  the  fortunes  of  our  queen; 
Drinking  dew  distilled  of  flowers 
In   these   snail-shell   cups   of   ours; — 
Let  the  perfumed  mead  we  drain 
Cheer  the  heart  and  fire  the  brain. 

Here  we  on  the  broidered  green 
Hold  the  revel  of  our  queen; 
All  among   the  clover  bloom — 
All    among   the    heather   plume — 
All  around  the  haunted  well 
Where  the  Nixies  love  to  dwell. 


FAIRIES'  SONG  169 

Here   we    from   the   pearled   green 
Haste  at  mandate  of  our  queen; 
See  the  morn  is  breaking  gray 
Over  the  hill-tops  far  away ! 
Benison  we  leave  with  you, — 
Mortals  all,  adieu!  adieu! 


MY   LASSIE    WITH    YOUR    EYES    OF   BLUE 

I  WAS  a  good-for-nothing  fellow, 
'Twas  little  work  that  I  would  do; 
Still  fond  of  drink  till  I  got  mellow; 
My  dollars  hardly  earned  and  few; 
'Til  I  met  you — 
My   lassie  with  your  eyes  of  blue. 

You  set  my  poor  dull  brain  to  thinking; 

You  set  my  heart  a-throbbing  too; 

I  scarce  could  look  at  you  for  blinking, 

You  were  so  wondrous  fair  to  view; 

Bright,  pure  as  dew — 

My  lassie  with  your  eyes  of  blue. 

Then  all  my  foolish  ways  went  packing, 

And  ever  as  I  worthier  grew, 

I  felt  my  merits  more  than  lacking, 

My  fealty  could  humbly  sue; 

Thru  thought  of  you, — 

My  lassie  with  your  eyes  of  blue. 

I  now  have  buckled  on  my  armor; 
I've  quit  the  weed  and  wine-cup,  too; 
I've  turned  a  trusty,  thrifty  farmer; 
I   save  my  money  like  a  Jew; 
'Tis  all  for  you, — 
My  lassie  with  your  eyes  of  blue. 
170 


MY  LASSIE  WITH  EYES  OF  BLUE       171 

My  heart's  a  bark  that's  ready  laden 

With  store  of  service  choice  and  new; 

Then   take   it  lovely,   tender  maiden, 

It  bears  its  cargo  all  to  you, 

Of  pledges  due, — 

My   lassie   with   your  eyes   of   blue. 

Then  when  my  heart's  full  sail  you've  sighted, 

And  it  has  anchored  close  to  you, 

Let  not  its  loving  freight  be  slighted ; 

The  foolish  heart,  'twas  all  it  knew; 

Just  love,   be   true — 

My  lassie  with  your  eyes  of  blue. 


FAIR  AS  CERES  BEARING  GUERDON 

FAIR  as  Ceres  bearing  guerdon, 
First  I  met  her  midst  the  corn ; 
To  our  ears  the  merry  burden 
Of  the  reaping  song  was  borne; 
On  that  morn, 
There  beside  the  nodding  corn. 

There  was  none  in  all  the  county, 
None  like  her  so  pure  and  fair; 
With  her  princely  father's  bounty 
In  the  land  could  none  compare; 
Stood  she  there, 
With  a  white  rose  in  her  hair. 

Oft  beside  yon  gleaming  river 
Held  we  converse  sweet  and  low; 
Where  the  paly  shafts  do  quiver 
From  the  new  moon's  silver  bow; 
Where  they   glow, 
And  the  pleasant  waters  flow. 

There  I  loved  her,  there  I  wooed  her, 
And  she  plighted  troth  for  mine; 
(Though  I  was  of  lineage  ruder, 
And  she  came  of  lofty  line) ; — 
Lo,  for  sign 

See,  this  faded  eglantine! 
172 


FAIR  AS  CERES  BEARING  GUERDON    173 

Soon,  alas,  fate  came  between  us 
And  our  last  adieus  were  sighed; 
Love  had  naught  on  earth  to  screen  us ; 
She  became  a  lordling's  bride; — 
Then  she  died, 
Like  a  flower  cut  down  in  pride! 

Often  now  I  sit  and  listen 

To  the  river's  monotone; 

Still  its  waters  lave  and  glisten, 

Yet  it  answers  me  my  moan, 

All  alone! 

For  my  heart  is  turned  to  stone! 


A    SONG    OF    THE    DAWN 

OH,  how  sweet  in  the  summer  fields  is  the  breath  of  the 
cool  clear  dawn, 
When   the  vapory  grey   is  rolled   from   the  earth   like  the 

veil  from  a  face  withdrawn ; 
When  the  Moon  her  canopied  state  in  heaven  resigns  to 

the  Lord  of  Light, 

And  her  splendid  glittering  courtier  train  have  vanished  in 
faithless  flight; 


'Til  the  green  voluptuous  land,  new-waked,  smiles  bright 
in  the  face  of  Day, 

And  Night's  bodeful  dreams  with  the  bats  and  owls  to  the 
darkness  hie  away; 

When  the  blooms  of  the  clover  fill  the  air  with  their  count- 
less faint  perfumes, 

While  millions  of  pearl-strewed  gossamer  webs  the  gay 
young  Sun  illumes: 

When  the  fingers  of  wizard  winds  play  light  with  the  leaves 
of  the  woodland's  crown; 

And  the  crispy  rasp  of  the  whetted  scythe  through  the  still- 
ness filters  down; 

And  the  low  of  the  mild,  full-uddered  cows  goes  forth  to 
their  offspring  near, 

While,  clapping  his  wings  to  the  joyous  morn,  winds  his 
challenge  the  chanticleer: 
174 


A  SONG  OF  THE  DAWN  175 

When  the  incense  of  early  cottage  fires  curls  soft  through 

the  delicate  blue, 
And  the  caw  comes  down  from  the  wooded  heights  of  the 

crows'  freebooting  crew; 
And  the  clangorous  wild-geese  wing  their  flight  o'er  meadow 

and  moor  and  brake 
To  flash  their  wings  and  dabble  their  beaks  in  the  breast 

of  the  northern  lake; 

When  the  vigilant  cricket  wakes  his  friends  asleep  in  the 
feathery  breres, 

'Til  the  grasshopper  leaps  from  his  leaf-hung  couch  through 
his  forest  of  blades  and  spears; 

'Til  all  over  the  fragrant  breast  of  earth  the  lives  of  sum- 
mer rejoice, 

And  the  varied  myriad  insect  tones  blend  one  universal 
voice ; 

When  the  face  of  every  wilding  flower  is  washed  her  lord 
to  greet; 

When  the  robin  whistles  his  blithest  note  and  the  black- 
bird's song  is  sweet; — 

Then  is  the  time  for  the  spirit  of  man  to  unburden  the 
breast  of  care, 

For  thankless  indeed  must  be  the  soul  untouched  by  a  scene 
so  fair! 


178  SEA  SONG 

She  plays  her  pranks  upon  us, 

But,  oh,  her  heart  is  free! 
And  as  soft  a  sleep  has  the  mighty  deep 

As  a  babe  on  its  mother's  knee. 

Then  here's  to  the  hardy  sailor 

Whose  home  is  the  dark  blue  wave; 

Who  sleeps  like  a  rock  in  the  tempest's  shock, 
Or  roars  his  rough  sea-stave! 


INVOCATION    TO   LOVE 

GOD,  defied  of  lovely  Eva, 
Cupid,  Eros,  Hamadeva, 
Or   by  whatsoever  name 
Thou  hast  long  been  known  to  fame — 
Child  of  Venus — Psyche's  spouse — 
Listen  to  thy  poet's  vows! 
For  his  mistress,  wanton  she, 
Harrieth  him  with  treachery. 


By   thy  bow  of  silver  whiteness — 

By  thy  quiver's  golden  brightness — 

By  thine  eye  of  roguish  blue 

And  thy  crisp  locks'  sunny  hue — 

By  thy  shining,  potent  arrows, 

And  thy  Mother  Venus'  sparrows — 

Hasten,  god  of  elfin  guile! 

Aid   me  with  thy  choicest  wile! 

Through  the  targe  of  her  white  breast 
Be  thy  keen  sweet  javelin  pressed — 
Whisper  softly  to  the  ear 
Glamor  maidens  love  to  hear, 
And  let  those  low  echoes  be 
Burdened  with  the  name  of  me. 
Love,  the  ancient  and  the  young, 
I  thine  honors  oft  have  sung! 
179 


178  SEA  SONG 

She  plays  her  pranks  upon  us, 

But,  oh,  her  heart  is  free! 
And  as  soft  a  sleep  has  the  mighty  deep 

As  a  babe  on  its  mother's  knee. 

Then  here's  to  the  hardy  sailor 

Whose  home  is  the  dark  blue  wave; 

Who  sleeps  like  a  rock  in  the  tempest's  shock, 
Or  roars  his  rough  sea-stave! 


INVOCATION   TO    LOVE 

GOD,  defied  of  lovely  Eva, 
Cupid,  Eros,  Hamadeva, 
Or  by  whatsoever  name 
Thou  hast  long  been  known  to  fame — 
Child  of  Venus — Psyche's  spouse — 
Listen  to  thy  poet's  vows! 
For  his  mistress,  wanton  she, 
Harrieth  him  with  treachery. 

By   thy  bow  of  silver  whiteness — 

By  thy  quiver's  golden  brightness — 

By  thine  eye  of  roguish  blue 

And  thy  crisp  locks'  sunny  hue — 

By  thy  shining,  potent  arrows, 

And  thy  Mother  Venus'   sparrows — 

Hasten,  god  of  elfin  guile! 

Aid   me  with  thy  choicest  wile! 


Through   the  targe  of  her  white  breast 
Be  thy  keen  sweet  javelin  pressed — 
Whisper  softly  to  the  ear 
Glamor  maidens  love  to  hear, 
And  let  those  low  echoes  be 
Burdened  with  the  name  of  me. 
Love,  the  ancient  and  the  young, 
I  thine  honors  oft  have  sung! 
179 


i8o  INVOCATION  TO  LOVE 

I,  in  sonnet  and  in  story, 
Oft  have  tuned  thine  infant  glory: — 
What  though  Time  with  churlish  hand 
Poureth  fast  my  shining  sand, 
And  my  kindly  summer  time 
Blighteth  with  his  early  rime, 
Love,  thou  still  hast  been  to  me 
An  adored  deity! 

Lo,  anew  thy  red  fires  start 
On  the  altar  of  my  heart! 
Fast  the  breath  of  passion  slips 
Forth  of  the  portal  of  my  lips. 
All  her  vagrant  fancies  guiding 
Past  the  lures  of  youth's  providing, 
Lead  her,  conqueror  of  charms, 
Captive  to  these  longing  arms! 

Then  will  I  thy  praise  renew; 
Thou  shalt  keep  my  homage  true; 
Crown  me  now  thy  child  of  fortune 
And  I  thee  no  more  importune! 
Come,  thou  hourly  heaven-descending, 
With  the  gift  that  hath  no  ending, 
Though  her  melting  spirit  shine, 
Make  the  radiant  maiden  mine! 


MY   LADY   FROM   THE    SEA 

THE  Lady  from  the  Sea!  a  name 
To  charm  the  listening  air; 
A  title  buoyant,  winged  for  fame, 

Mysterious,  debonair; 
It  rings  across  the  round  of  time 

In  music  pulsing  free; — 
A  breath  from  far  Romance's  clime — 
"The  Lady  from  the  Sea." 

But  now  the  phrase  hath  sweeter  grown, 

And  haunts  my  ravished  ear; 
It  takes  a  tenderer,  richer  tone 

That  none  beside  may  hear; 
The  tocsin  of  an  ampler  hope 

Where  Faith  shall  bend  the  knee; 
Within  one  fond  heart's  larger  scope, 

My  Lady  from  the  Sea! 

My  Lady  from  the  Sea  she  stands, 

And  none  may  her  gainsay; 
With  true  love  dowry  in  her  hands 

And  in  her  eyes  the  play 
Of  forces  that  unfold  their  charm 

Of  light  and  power  to  me, 
Yet  work  no  living  creature  harm — 

My  Lady  from  the  Sea. 
181 


i8a  MY  LADY  FROM  THE  SEA 

The  rhythm  of  the  ocean  wind 

Is  pulsing  through  her  heart; 
The  glint  of  waves  that  plastic  bind 

All  lands  across  the  chart, 
With  something  of  dawn's  tender  grace 

In  her  clear  eyes  I  see; 
Or  sunset's  glamor  lights  her  face — 

My  Lady  from  the  Sea. 

I  watch  the  endless  waters  flow 

Beneath  the  eternal  sky; 
I  view  the  tall  ships  come  and  go 

With  new  awakened  eye; 
She  stands  beside  me  and  her  voice 

Doth  with  all  moods  agree; 
She  cries,  "Rejoice,  worn  heart,  rejoice!" 

My  Lady  from  the  Sea. 

Like  her  I  come  of  Viking  blood, 

Yet  bred  in  landward  town, 
I  feared  the  mystery  of  the  flood 

And  shunned  the  deep  sea  crown; 
But  now  the  breadth  of  wave  and  sky 

Lies  bare  to  port  and  lee; — 
Ah,  how  the  bannered  clouds  go  by, 

My  Lady  from  the  Sea! 


MY    SONNETEER 

TWAS  in  a  common  German  "Haus" 
Where  one  may  buy  a  beer, 
(A  "ham  and"  kind  of  place  it  was), 

I  met  my  sonneteer. 
Among  an  unkempt,  frowzy  set, 

Who  wore  a  tipsy  leer 
And  swaggered  loud,   'twas  first  I  met, 
I  met  my  sonneteer. 

The  scion  of  Euterpe  sat 

In   solitary  cheer, 
A  well-worn,  weather-beaten  hat 

Adorned  my  sonneteer; 
But  yet  he  took  his  glass  of  "wet" 

As  though  'twere  Rhenish  dear; 
Thus  getting  up  his  steam  I  met, 

I  met  my  sonneteer. 

I  knew  him  as  the  author  of 

That  poem  called  De  Vere; 
'Twas  mild  as — well,  a  sucking  dove, 

Or  as  my  sonneteer. 
But  now  it's  dead  as  "Capulet," 

A   "book  without  a  .peer"; 
As  dreary  as  his  verse  I  met, 

I  met  my  sonneteer. 

The  Muse's  livery  on  his  back 
All  threadbare  did   appear, 
183 


184  MY  SONNETEER 

Its  shiny  seams  did  fray  and  crack 

Upon  my  sonneteer. 
'Twas   with   a   feeling  of   regret, 

And  with  a  sort  of  fear 
His  lot  might  soon  be  mine,  I  met, 

I   met  my  sonneteer. 

What  use  for  him  Fate  had  in  store 

Was  not  exceeding  clear; 
For  poetasters  grow  galore 

Like  to  my  sonneteer. 
And  Fortune  sends  her  "Kind  regret" 

To  many  such  a  year; 
I  thought,  "the  world  will  soon  forget, 

Forget  my  sonneteer." 

But  ah,  the  Gods  had  care  of  him 

Most  gracious-wise  I  hear; 
A  wealthy  widow  took  a  whim 

And  wed  my  sonneteer. 
He  wrote  the  dame  a  canzonet 

Upon  her  eye  or  ear; 
A  Muse  of  some  account!    I  met, 

I  met  my  sonneteer. 

'Twas  at  the  big  Fitz-Boodle  ball, 

The  grandest  of  the  year, 
While  strolling  through  the  supper  hall 

I  met  my  sonneteer; 
He  looked  as  though  a  dun  or  debt 

Ne'er  once  had  come  him  near; 
A-sipping  Pommery  Sec  I  met, 

I  met  my  sonneteer! 

And  as  the  fashion  is,  he  now 
His  head  will  highly  rear; 


MY  SONNETEER  185 

To  friends  of  old  he'll  slightly  bow 

My  purse-proud  sonneteer. 
At  bon-ton  clubs  he's  quite  a  pet, 

Is  booked  for  a  "career"; 
He's  changed  indeed,  but  he  is  yet, 

Is  yet — a  sonneteer! 


SONG   FOR  THE   EMPIRE   STATE 

THE  mightiest  of  the  sisters  that  form  our  native  land, 
The  bulwark  of  our  promise  by  lake  and  ocean  spanned, 
Nine  million  sons  of  freemen,  tried  men  of  mart  and  field, 
In  one  accord  are  voicing  the  triumph  of  her  shield. 

The  golden  grain  is  ours  and  ours  the  fruitful  vine; 

Above  our  vales   and   mountains   the  stars  of   empire 

shine ; 

The  product  of  the  woodland,  the  harvest  of  the  lea, 
Pour  down  our  roads  and  rivers  to  lake  and  town  and 
sea. 

Flow  forth,  thou  stately  banner,  upon  the  westering  gale, 
That  flaunts  her  song  of  triumph  o'er  every  hill  and 
vale; 

From  where  one  mighty  city  holds  sovereign  state  to-day, 
To  mine  and  farm  and  forest,  to  hill  and  cape  and  bay! 

Yet  fairer  than  the  pageant  of  mountain,  dale  and  sea, 
Is  that  free  plighted  tribute,  O  Lord  of  Hosts,  to  Thee ! 

Thine  is  the  cause  and  promise,  thine  is  the  law  and  rule, 
That  shapes  the  church  and  forum,  that  moulds  the 
home  and  school. 

Thou  gateway  of  the  nation,  the  constant  tribute  pours 
From  lands  beneath  the  dawning,  to  these  enfranchised 

shores ; 
Hold  up  the  ancient  emblem  *  to  show  to  after  time 

How   from  the   slender   seedling  has  grown   the  tree 

sublime ! 

*  The  arms  of  New  York  State. 

186 


A   SONG  OF   HOPE 

DEAR  heart,  the  clouds  of  even 
Will  fade  away  at  morn, 
And  with  the  sun  of  heaven 

New  life  and   light  be  born; 
Then  do  not  now  despair, 
Nor  live  of  hope  forlorn; 
The  cloud  that  came  with  even 
Will  pass  away  at  morn. 

Let  us  be  constant  still 

Through  all  life's  care  and  cark, 
Bearing  a  cheerful  will 

Though  all  around  be  dark; 
The  sun's  behind  the  cloud 

Though  here  his  beams  are  shorn; 
The  cloud  that  came  with  even 
Will  pass   away  at   morn. 

Take  Hope  unto  your  bosoms, 

All  ye  sad  sons  of  care; 
Her  brow  is  wreathed  with  blossoms 

That  perfume  lives  of  prayer; 
Gather  her  to  your  hearts, 

All  ye  of  faith  forlorn; 
The  cloud  that  came  with  even 
Will  pass  away  at  morn. 


187 


CRADLE    SONG 

(Translated  from  the  French  of  Madame  Valmore) 

IF  baby  sleep  he'll  see 
The  busy  bumble  bee 
With  the  honey  'neath  her  thigh 
Dancing  'tween  the  earth  and  sky. 

If  baby  sleep  in  bed 

An  angel  rosy  red 

(None  else  sees  him  without  light) 

Down  will  come  and  say  "good-night." 

The  Virgin  full  of  grace 

Down  to  his  sweet  face, 

If  he'll  quiet  be,  will  bend 

And  long  time  in  talk  will  spend. 

"If  my  child  love  me," 

God  to  himself  says  he, 

"I  love  that  child  who'll  sleep 

Make  him  golden  dreams  to   keep. 

"Eyes  to  close  prepare! 
When  he's  said  his  prayer, 
He  shall  see  my  gardens  grow 
With  the  brightest  flowers  that  blow. 
188 


CRADLE  SONG  189 

"Angel  hands  down  press 
And  smooth  his  long  night  dress! 
And  let  whitest  down  be  shed 
Where  he  rests  his  sleeping  head ! 

"Brood  ye  wings  above! 
Like  the  turtle  dove, 
From  his  eyes  my  sun  to  keep 
When  he  wakens  from  his  sleep ! 

"While  he  travels  far 

In  my  cloudy  car, 

Let  him,  whensoe'er  he  deems, 

Drink  my  milk  that  flows   in  streams! 

"Open  to  his  call 

Pearl  and  amber  hall! 

He  while  sleeping  shall  partake 

Of  my  precious  diamond  cake! 

"Broider  ye  his  sail, 
Stars  so  bright  and  pale! 
When  he  sets  his  little  boat 
On  my  azure  lake  afloat! 

"Waves  be  clearer  soon 
Than  the  shining  moon! 
While  my  fish  with  silver  flakes 
In  the  changing  deep  he  takes! 

"But  I  would  he  sleep 
And  in  slumber  keep, 
Like  the  birds  in  downy  hush 
In  their  houses  built  of  rush! 


CRADLE  SONG 

"If,  an  hour  gone  by 
Still  they  hear  him  cry, 
Everywhere  they'd  say  abroad 
That  child's  disobeying  God!" 

"Echo  down  the  street 
Would  the  news  repeat, 
Saying,  as  the  hour  flies, 
'Hark,  I  hear  a  child  that  cries!' 

"And  his  mother  dear 

In  the  night  severe, 

Won't   keep   singing  very   long 

To  that  naughty  child  her  song! 

"Should  he  cry  and  fret 

For  daybreak  in  pet, 

From  her  lamb  who  won't  obey 

Maybe  she  will  run  away. 

"Or  then  she  may  flee 

Through  the  roof,  maybe; 

Angry  at  his  cries,  alack! 

Off  she'll  go  and  won't  come  back! 

"Wander  where  he  may 
None  will  say  'good-day !' 
And  I  say  that  child  unwise 
Will  not  look  on  Paradise! 

"Yes!  but  if  he's  still, 

The  Blessed  Virgin  will 

To  his  sweet  face  downward  bend, 

And  long  time  in  talk  will  spend !" 


FRENCH    FORMS 


FRENCH    FORMS 

THESE  blooms  of  song  in  minstrel  time 
Sprang  from  Provence's  genial  clime; 
Fair  as  in  Ronsard's  lovers'  lay 
The  rare  exotics  flower  to-day, 
Crowning  de  Banville's  courtly  prime. 

As  at  the  play  the  facile  mime 

Shows  worth,  love,  chivalry,  and  crime, — 

Change  to  all  tints  of  fancy's  play 
These  blooms  of  song. 

Though  here  the  stubborn  English  rhyme 
Curbs  the  Chant  Royal's  tread  sublime, 

The  Rondeau  courts  an  English  day; 

The  Ballade's  tendrils  bend  and  sway 
'Neath  northern  oak  as  southern  lime, 
These  blooms  of  song! 


THE    IMMORTALITY   OF   SONG 

(Chant  Royal) 

ALL  earthly  state  doth  wither  and  decay; 
Nor  Pride,  Wealth,  Splendor,  Loveliness,  nor  Might, 
May  in  its  course  the  stroke  of  Ruin  stay, 

As  dreams  they  fade  and  vanish  out  of  sight. 
Perpetual  change!   the  beggar  and  the  king 
Each  turn  to  mould,  and  from  their  ashes  spring 

Conceptions  for  new  life;  o'er  Xerxes'  hall 

Deep  sands  are  drifting;  lions  nightly  call 
Across  the  waste  where  Babylon  proud  and  strong 

Towered  to  Heaven;  yet  safe  from  Ruin's  thrall 
They  shine  alway — the  saintly  stars  of  Song! 


What  is  the  conqueror's  laurel?     Where  the  sway 

Of  Caesars  with  their  purple  robes  bedight? 
Like  to  a  breath  they  came — they  passed  away 

Like  torches  flashed  across  the  breast  of  night; 
However  so  mighty,  Time's  remorseless  wing 
Sweeps  them  along — of  them  scarce  anything 

Is  left  or  known; — the  centuries  downward  haul 

Their  palaces — the  ivy  on  the  wall 
Hides  all  their  wrecks  of  pride;  oblivion  long 

Wraps  crown  and  sceptre,  throne  and  sumptuous  pall; 
They  shine  alway — the  saintly  stars  of  Song! 

193 


194        THE  IMMORTALITY  OF  SONG 

Where  are  the  lovely  forms  of  olden  day — 
Proud  Cleopatra's  charms,  all  dusky  bright, 

Helen's  enrapturing  beauty,  Lais  gay? 
Alas!  frail  Beauty  first  doth  suffer  blight. 

The  rose  blooms  forth;  to-day  our  plaudits  ring, 

To-morrow,  and  the  wanton  world  doth  fling 
Its  withered  joy  aside!     In  ruin  fall 
Firm  arch,  proud  plinth,   and  storied  capital; 

The  eternal  hills  themselves  shall  suffer  wrong: 
Pure  and  inviolate  from  earth's  changes  all 

They  shine  alway — the  saintly  stars  of  Song! 

Youth  with  his  garland  takes  his  joyous  way, 
Pledging  the  future  with  a  proud  delight; 

How  veiled  is  soon  the  glory  of  his  day — 

The  years  speed  on  and  Time  asserts  his  right! 

Changes  no  longer  new  enchantments  bring; 

All  niggard  now  of  cheer  and  welcoming, 
The  Seasons  offer  cups  of  rue  and  gall, 
And  weeds  for  favors;  round  earth's  rolling  ball 

Youth  creeps  to  age;  bound  as  by  iron  thong, 
Blind  fortune  sweeps  him  onward  past  recall: — 

They  shine  alway — the  saintly  stars  of  Song! 

Yes,  song  survives!  except  the  inspired  lay 
Nothing  of  man's  is  stable;  earth  takes  flight 

Itself;  in  vain  we  would  for  respite  pray; 
Time  soon  or  late  our  titles  doth  indict. 

Awhile  around  the  past  our  memories  cling, 

Awhile  for  loved  ones  lost  we're  sorrowing, 

Then  Death  our  names  doth  in  his  tablet  scrawl, 
And  we  are  past  the  heart-ache  and  the  brawl, 

Life's  hopes  and  fears  and  Pain's  envenomed  prong; 
The  armor-bearer  sinks  beside  the  Saul; — 

They  shine  alway — the  saintly  stars  of  Song! 


THE  IMMORTALITY  OF  SONG  195 


L  ENVOI 

Friend,  while  to  age  and  dusty  death  we  crawl, 
Till  Time  lays  by  his  scythe  and  iron  maul, 

Songs  are  Heaven's  choicest  gifts;  above  the  throng 
Abiding — o'er  the  mighty  and  the  small — 

They  shine  alway — the  saintly  stars  of  Song! 


THE    RENASCENCE   OF   SPRING 

(Chant  Royal) 

THERE  dawns  new  gladness  over  holt  and  dale, 
A  rich  prelude  of  melody  and  light; 
The  mating  birds  upon  their  branches  hail 

The  regal  morn — all  things  to  joy  invite. 
The  velvet  grass  is  freshening  o'er  the  lea; 
The  bloom  is  frothing  over  bush  and  tree; 

The  earth  doth  set  her  mourning  weeds  aside, 

And  flushes,  joyous  as  a  new-made  bride, 
Beneath  the  gaze  of  her  glad  lord  and  king, 

The  bridegroom  sun,  all  warm  and  ardent-eyed ; — 
Maternal  Earth  rejoices  with  the  Spring! 


No  snow  whirl  drives  before  the  billowy  gale; 

Gone  are  the  tokens  of  decay  and  blight; 
Upon  slant  wing  the  twittering  swallows  sail, 

Flashing  their  pinions  lined  with  flecked  white ; 
Nature  stands  crowned  in  all  her  majesty; 
The  heavens  glow  pure  as  a  pellucid  sea; 

The  soul  with  an  intenser  flame  supplied, 

Grows  warmed,  enlightened,  and  revivified, 
Till  all  its  heart  doth  to  the  season  sing, 

Partaking  Nature's  generative  pride; — 
Maternal  Earth  rejoices  with  the  Spring! 

196 


THE  RENASCENCE  OF  SPRING  197 

The  burnished  beetle  in  his  jointed  mail, 
Wheeling  across  the  fields  in  whirring  flight, 

Drums  for  the  concert  warblers  of  the  vale 
His  overture   to   Summer's  queenly  might. 

The  blithe  grasshopper  from  his  bended  knee 

Vaults  forth;  the  cricket  chirrups  loud  in  glee; 
The  dragonflies  across  the  champaign  glide, 
Their  filmy  oars  transparent  stretching  wide; 

The  cooing  dove  flushes  his  iris  ring, 

Wooing  his  mate  who  coyly  steps  aside; — 

Maternal  Earth  rejoices  with  the  Spring! 

The  ghostly  beeches  past  the  orchard  pale 
Are  donning  ruffled  cloaks  all  emerald  bright; 

The  vine  begins  to  clamber  o'er  the  rail; 
The  timid  violets  now  are  not  affright, 

But  to  the  season's  genial  gaiety 

They  venture  forth  and  make  their  beauties  free; 
The  hardy  crocus  to  the  north  allied, 
Stands  bravely  up  in  raiment  purple-pied; 

The  daisy  soon  her  shield  will  forward  fling, 
The  vaunted  champion  of  the  Summer-tide; — 

Maternal  Earth  rejoices  with  the  Spring! 

This  is  Love's  season — now  he  doth  not  fail 

Of  hearts;  no  mark  escapes  his  cunning  sleight; 
Nothing  can  his  keen  arrows  countervail, 

When  Spring  hath  wound  her  clarion  on  the  height. 
Nature's  warm  charms  woo  Youth  voluptuously, 
He  may  not  from  her  flowery  bondage  flee; 

For  like  a  mistress  true,  companion  tried, 

Her  gentle  suasion  may  not  be  denied, 
And  with  a  thousand  arts  of  welcoming 

She  lures  him  to  her  fragrant  blooming  side; — 
Maternal  Earth  rejoices  with  the  Spring! 


198  THE  RENASCENCE  OF  SPRING 

L'ENVOI 

Nature,  true  teacher,  still  be  thou  my  guide! 
Never  by  me  be  thy  rich  charms  decried; 

Still  to  my  heart  thy  choicest  blessings  bring! 
Ride  on  supreme!  in  joyful  triumph  ride; — 

Maternal  Earth  rejoices  with  the  Spring! 


THE   COMING   AGE 

(Chant  Royal} 

AROUND  the  wastes  of  Tyranny  and  War, 
Athwart  the  clouds  of  Ignorance  and  Blight, 
There  falls  a  splendor  from  the  heavenly  shore, 

A  strong  archangel  standing  in  the  light; 
The  angel's  name  is  Peace — seraphic  gleams 
Adorn  his  robes  and  from  his  aureole  streams 

The  gladness  of  the  Morning;  fair  on  fair 

The  lustres  kindle  up  the  pulsing  air 
And  fling  their  radiance  over  every  clime ; — 

Lo,  Love  will  come  with  laurels  round  his  hair! 
So  flushed  with  promise  dawns  the  Coming  Time! 


Gone  is  the  bigot's  wrath — the  open  door 
Of  Concord  doth  on  golden  hinge  invite 
All  nations;  on  Thought's  steep  and  boundless  shore 

What  leagues  of  Prescience  lengthen  on  the  sight! 

The  glory  poets  outlined  in  their  dreams 

To-day  on  us  in  amplest  beauty  beams; 

The  triumphs  Hope  to  think  would  hardly  dare, 
The  Sciences  unceasing  hands  prepare; 

The  pageant  Hours  in  pomp  of  trophied  prime 

Upon  their  heads  their  wreaths  of  conquest  wear; — 

So  flushed  with  promise  dawns  the  Coming  Time! 

199 


200  THE  COMING  AGE 

Now  sovereign  Plenty  hath  unlocked  her  store; 

Forth  unto  Want  she  holds  her  harvest  bright  ; 
Around  her  foaming  vats  and  threshing-floor 

Dance  jocund  fays  in  gay  and  festal  flight; 
With  bounteous  wealth  the  fair-hued  future  teems, 
And  unto  joy  the  sons  of  grief  redeems, 

Bringing  to  Labor  ease  and  balm  for  Care; 

While  Love  shall  all  the  poor  man's  burdens  share, 
While  Freedom  marching  up  her  paths  sublime 

Shall  lead  to  wider  views  and  clearer  air; — 
So  flushed  with  promise  dawns  the  Coming  Time ! 

Fair  Culture  rules  where  Plenty  held  before, 

With  hyacinthine  locks  and  brow  of  white; 
Even  Pride  himself  shall  yield  to  her  devoir; 

She  stands  the  queen  of  Progress  and  of  Might; 
She  calms  and  quells  the  discord  of  extremes; 
Worth  has  her  heart  and  virtue  she  esteems; 

All  hearts  and  minds  are  open  to  her  prayer; 

Her  blooms  most  fragrant  are,  most  costly  rare; 
She  loves  the  lute,  she  loves  the  poet's  rhyme; 

No  earthly  beauty  can  with  hers  compare ; — 
So  flushed  with  promise  dawns  the  Coming  Time ! 

The  Olden  Ages  all  their  treasures  pour 
Into  the  lap  of  Learning,  at  whose  right 

The  baffled  fiends  of  Prejudice  deplore, 

While  Plenty,  Culture,  Freedom,  with  delight 

Wax  mightier,  while  the  golden  sunburst  seems 

To  consecrate  the  page  of  Wisdom's  themes, 
To  track  the  dark-faced  passions  to  their  lair, 
Who  soon  in  chains  shall  into  bondage  fare, 

'Til  Love  shall  take  the  cruel  sword  from  Crime; 
Can  mind  conceive  or  tongue  such  bliss  declare! 

So  flushed  with  promise  dawns  the  Coming  Time! 


THE  COMING  AGE  201 


LENVOI 

Take  heart,  ye  doubting  and  despondent!  there 
Grows  Truth  where  Love  has  birth; — far  up  the  stair 

Of  Progress  shall  enfranchised  manhood  climb ; 
Yea,  Faith  shall  wed  with  Reason  everywhere; — 

So  flushed  with  promise  dawns  the  Coming  Time! 


(Ballade) 

TO  Philosophy's  heights  he  could  soar, 
Could  decipher  the  stones  of  Copan  ; 
He  was  versed  in  Rabbinical  lore 
From  Beersheba  even  to  Dan; 
Ten  tongues  he  could  jabber  and  scan; 
Like  Noah's  adventurous  dove 

He  had  travelled  from  Maine  to  Japan, — 
But  he  lacked  the  advantage  of  Love. 

He  pondered  Zoology  o'er; 

He  collected  the  pot  and  the  pan ; 
Over  fossils  he'd  study  and  pore 

And  could  tell  when  the  fusion  began ; 

From  a  star  to  an  Indian  fan 
He  had  learning  all  others  above; 

His  mind  took  a  world  in  its  span, — 
He  lacked  the  advantage  of  Love. 

His  soul  could  like  Kepler's  explore 

The  deeps  of  creation,  he  ran 
The  gauntlet  of  pedant  and  bore 

And  the  straight-forehead  orthodox  clan; 

On  a  pulpit  he  beat  rataplan 
With  a  hand  that  was  soft  as  a  glove  ; 

He  could  pray  and  palaver,  and  plan, — 
He  lacked  the  advantage  of  Love. 
202 


THE  ADVANTAGE  OF  LOVE  203 


L  ENVOI 


Prince,  though  you  win  all  you  can, 
Though  Fortune  continues  to  shove ; 

You've  missed  the  true  scope  of  a  man 
If  you  lack  the  advantage  of  Love. 


UNDER    MARLBORO' 
(Ballade) 

TTTE'VE  drummed  all  the  French  out  of  Lille; 
VV     We'll  soon  have  them  drubbed  out  of  Flanders, 

When  the  trumpets  of  Marlboro'  peal, 
'Tis  "on!"  with  our  tough  salamanders, 
King  Louis'  proud  pets  and  his  panders 

May  carve  new  estates  in  Cayenne; 

Let  them  call  on  their  prince  of  commanders; 

Pouf!     Here's  to  their  Marshal  Turenne! 

Tallard  and  Villars  have  turned  heel, 

They  ran  like  a  pack  of  train-banders; 
The  Johnny  Crapauds,  how  they  squeal 

As  we  charge  under  Mordaunt  and  Saunders. 

Messieurs,  you  are  gallant  Leanders, 
Your  vocation's  in  Paris,  and  then 

The  Pompadour  dotes  upon  slanders; — 
Pouf!     Here's  to  your  Marshal  Turenne! 

You  may  trim  us  in  farce,  vaudeville, 
And  dub  us  gourmands  and  outlanders; 

We'll  play  you  to  fire  and  steel 

And  the  stiffest  of  British  right-handers. 

You  imagined  us  Hessians  and  Pandours; 

Mes  braves,  you  mistook  us,  and  when 
The  Seine  is  your  last  of  Scamanders, — 
Pouf!    Here's  to  your  Marshal  Turenne! 
204 


UNDER  MARLBORO'  205 


L  ENVOI 


Your  sheep  and  champagne  to  the  branders, 
Or,  Louis,  we'll  claim  them  again! 

For  prog  we  are  stoutest  of  standers, 
Pouf !     Here's  to  your  Marshal  Turenne! 


BALLADE  OF  THE  SEA-SERPENT 

MYTHOLOGY'S  knocked  all  awry; 
Gods,  demi-gods  deader  than  punk; 
To  the  Fauns  and  the  Fairies  good-bye! 
Each  Dryad  has  packed  up  her  trunk; 
Nymph,  Naiad,  and  Oread  funk; 
The  spook  has  gone  off  in  a  pet; 

The  Satyr  is  dead  or  dead  drunk; — 
The  Sea-Serpent  flourishes  yet! 


The  Mermaid  has  gotten  so  shy 

She  siestas  all  day  in  her  bunk ; 
The  Triton  is  piping  his  eye; 

The  Nereids  are  all  of  them  sunk; 

The  Gnomes  to  earth's  bowels  have  slunk; 
The  Pixies  have  paid  their  last  debt; 

The  Nixies  are  "nixy,"  non  nunc; — 
The  Sea-Serpent  flourishes  yet! 


No  witch  is  now  sweeping  the  sky, 

The  last  one  was  burned  for  her  spunk; 
One  cannot  on  devils  rely, 

Although  we've  the  word  of  the  monk; 

In  Time's  nostrils  the  Centaur  has  stunk; 
No  hobgoblin  or  bogle  is  met; 

Vanderdecken  has  flown  with  his  junk; — 
The  Sea-Serpent  flourishes  yet! 
206 


BALLADE  OF  THE  SEA-SERPENT         207 


L  ENVOI 


Prince,  clever  headed  or  lunk, 

Time  soon  will  your  glories  forget; 

You'll  down  to  oblivion  plunk; — 
The  Sea-Serpent  flourishes  yet! 


BALLADE   OF   THE   TAILOR 

WHATE'ER  philosophers  may  say, 
Or  men  of  texts  and  tariffs  prose, 
In  toga,  tea-cup  times,  to-day, 

The  greatest  social  fact  is  clothes. 
Come  good  or  bad,  come  friends  or  foes, 
The  wise  or  simple,  great  or  small, 

Where'er  the  wave  of  culture  flows, 
The  Tailor,  he  is  King  of  all. 


The  days  of  plumes  and  mantles  gay, 

Or  ruffles,  patches,  furbelows, 
Have  like  foam-bubbles  passed  away, 

Vanished  the  age  of  wits  and  beaux; 

The  gallant  mincing  on  his  toes, 
Both  Nelly's  grace  and  Ninon's  thrall, 

Have  passed  like  pageants  of  the  Rose,- 
The  Tailor,  he  was  king  of  all. 


Now  dandies  dress  in  black  or  gray; 

They  sport  no  more  the  silken  hose; 
The  pantaloon  has  come  to  stay; 

No  dress  shirt  now  a  ruffle  knows; 

A  "congress"  is  a  flock  of  crows; 
The  broidered  scarf  is  now  a  shawl ; 

But  still,  howe'er  the  fashion  goes, 
The  Tailor,  he  is  king  of  all. 
208 


BALLADE  OF  THE  TAILOR  209 

L'ENVOI 

Friend,  while  upon  the  Stage  you  pose 
As  fool  or  knave,  as  saint  or  Saul, — 

In  dress  you  mask  or  you  disclose; 
The  Tailor,  he  is  king  of  all ! 


THE  SERVANT  OF  THE  MUSE 
(Ballade} 

OH,  callow  youths,  ye  vaporing  lovers  all, 
Who  pay  your  vows  at  some  fair  Circe's  shrine, 
If  ye  to  one  entrancing  maid  a  thrall 

Your  ease  of  mind  and  sportive  joys  resign, — 
If  ye   for   her  your  liberties  confine, 
And  all  your  former  comfortings  refuse, 

Your  case  is  not  so  desperate  as  is  mine, — 
Ye  know  not  what  it  means  to  serve  the  Muse! 

Ye    middle-aged,    who    live    false    Fortune's    thrall, 
Who  fondly  deem  her  smile  will  constant  shine; 

Ye  who  beneath  her  ruthless  chariot  fall, 
Or  for  her  gilded  toys  and  bubbles  pine, 
Your  ear  to  a  more  hapless  wight  incline, 

Who  to  a  more  capricious  mistress  sues; 

Be  thankful  of  your  wage  and  drain  your  wine, — 

Ye  know  not  what  it  means  to  serve  the  Muse ! 

Old  men,  who  throng  to  Wisdom's  spacious  hall, 

And  worship  white-robed  Science,  the  divine; 
Who  dig  for  light  at  Death's  dark  barrier  wall, 

And  con  life's  mystic  precepts  line  by  line; 

Straining  your  anxious  vision  for  a  sign 
How  to  unravel  cunning  Nature's  ruse; 

If  she  be  coy  ye  need  not  wince  nor  whine, — 
Ye  know  not  what  it  means  to  serve  the  Muse! 

210 


THE  SERVANT  OF  THE  MUSE  211 


L  ENVOI 


All  ye  smug  Strephons,  who  prosaic  dine 
Upon  the  viands  which  your  Phyllis  stews, 

Eat  and  be  thankful  for  your  chops  and  chine, — 
Ye  know  not  what  it  means  to  serve  the  Muse ! 


THE  BOGEY  OF  ENGLISH  FREE  TRADE 
(Ballade) 

THE  tariff's  a  dear  little  pet, 
The  child  of  Republican  lout; 
Protection  its  nurse  (that  is,  wet), 
Just  now  is  much  flustered,  put  out; 
Monopolist,  run  with  the  clout! 
Manufacturer,  stand  for  its  maid! 

And  fright  away  megrim  and  pout 
With  the  bogey  of  English  free  trade. 

Oh,  swaddle  it,  dandle  it  yet, 

Ye  grave  senatorial  rout ! 
And  teach  it  its  tare  and  its  tret, 

And  to  keep  clean  its  snub  little  snout. 

Don't  let  depraved  Democrats  flout 
Its  failings,  or  make  it  afraid, 

But  after  its  enemies  scout 
With  the  bogey  of  English  free  trade. 

Brother  Jonathan's  house  is  upset; 

The  mischief !    What's  all  this  about  ? 
What  caucusing  furor,  and  fret! 

What  a  headshaking,  shiver  and  shout! 

"The  country'll  be  ruined,  I  vow  it!" 
"Let  the  surplus  in  pensions  be  paid !" 

"Put  the  tariff's  revisers  to  rout 
With  the  bogey  of  English  free  trade!" 

212 


THE  BOGEY  OF  ENGLISH  FREE  TRADE    213 
L'ENVOI 

Ye  sons,  macaroni  and  kraut! 

Ye  wielders  of  dibble  and  spade ! 
They'd  gammon  you,  make  not  a  doubt, 

With  the  bogey  of  English  free  trade! 


BERANGER'S  SONGS 
(Rondeau) 

BE'RANGER'S  songs— ah,  few  to-day 
Can  such  inspiring  measures  sway; 
What  muse  can  match  the  lilting  strain 
That  dances  down  his  sweet  refrain? 
Come — name  his  rivals!  where  are  they? 

Around  his  theme  wit's  flashes  play; 
He's  France!  in  him  France  lives  for  aye; 
They  glow  like  sunshine  dipped  in  rain, 
Beranger's  songs! 

The  modern  muse  is  seldom  gay, 
Infrequent  grows  the  heart-felt  lay, 

The  voice  of  passion  breathes  in  pain; 

O  come,  ye  gladsome  days  again! 
Like   stars  they   gleam   along   my   way, 

Beranger's  songs! 


214 


MY  TRICKSY  MUSE 
(Rondeau) 

MY  tricksy  Muse !  full  oft  you  play 
Me  shy,  when  I'd  fain  have  you  stay; 
The  most  coquettish  maid  I  know 
Are  you,  and  though  I  court  you,  lo, 
You're  off  for  all  I  do  or  say! 

Well,  come  or  go  howe'er  you  may; 
Assertive,   tender,   grave  or  gay, 

Yet  never  false,  malicious  grow, 
My  tricksy  Muse! 

The  critic,  waiting  for  his  prey, 
May  scoff  you,  with  my  scorn  I  pay ; 

And  should  all  wheels  on  Fortune's  row 
Spin  by  us,  we'll  no  favors  owe; 
Afoot  we'll   travel   life's   highway, 
My  tricksy  Muse! 


215 


A   RUSTIC   SCENE 
(Rondeau) 

A  RUSTIC  scene,  ma  chere  ami? 
Well,  first  a  vine-flowered  canopy; 
A  garden  here — an  orchard  yon — 
A  fountain  and  a  sloping  lawn — 
Some  chairs — the  china  set  for  tea. 

Yes,  something  more — ah,  there  must  be 
A  hedge  in  bloom — a  willow  tree — 

Thus  far  you  think  I've  fairly  drawn 
A  rustic  scene? 

A  lake  far  distant — down  the  lea 

A  white-robed,  gold-haired,  winsome  she, 

Holding  in  ribbon  leash  a  fawn; 

Her  smile,  suggestive  of  the  dawn — 
A  young  Aurora;  you,  ma  mie; — 

A  rustic  scene! 


216 


A    PERFECT    FRIEND 
(Rondeau) 

A  PERFECT  friend,  Miss  Guenevere, 
-*V.  Come  tell  me  who  that  is  ?    'Tis  queer 
A  clever  scholar  such  as  you 
Never  that  mental  portrait  drew, 
And  you  thumb  Shakespeare  every  year! 

Heart,  culture,  grace,  a  voice  of  cheer, 
Wit  not  too  gay  nor  yet  severe, 

Tact,  talent,  sweetness,  all  are  due 
A  perfect  friend. 

A  woman?  surely!     Men  appear 

Less  sympathetic,  earnest,  clear, 
Resourceful — and  I  know  but  few 
Of  your  sex,  even,  kind  and  true. 

Look  in  the  mirror — you?  yes,  dear, 
A  perfect  friend ! 


217 


THE  HEART'S  VOYAGE 
(Pantoum) 

MY  all  too  trustful  day  is  o'er, 
Grey  clouds  draw  darkling  o'er  the  sea; 
Youth's    all   enchanting  tropic   shore 
Fades  slowly  o'er  life's  shadowed  lea. 

Grey  clouds  grow  darkling  o'er  the  sea 
From  out  the  deepening  skies  of  time; 

Fades  slowly  o'er  life's  shadowed  lea 
The  freshness  of  life's  summer  clime. 

From  out  the  deepening  skies  of  time — 
The  storm-wings  veering  down  in  force, — 

The  freshness  of  life's  summer  clime 
I  leave,  upon  my  out-bound  course. 

The  storm-wings  veering  down   in   force, — 
I  know  not  where  they  drive  me  on; 

I  leave,   upon   my  out-bound   course, 

Bright  hopes,  full-blossomed   at  the  dawn. 

I  know  not  where  they  drive  me  on — 
The  dark  waves  stretch  an  endless  waste; 

Bright  hopes,  ye  blossomed  at  the  dawn — 
Roses,   that  once   Faith's  garden   graced! 

The  dark  waves  stretch  an  endless  waste; 

One  star  beams  through  the  gloom  above; 
Roses,    that   once   Faith's   garden    graced, 

Ye  all   were  consecrate  to  Love! 
218 


THE  HEART'S  VOYAGE  219 

One  star  beams  through  the  gloom  above, 

The  pale,  pure  star  of  Poesy; 
Ye  all  were  consecrate  to  Love, 

Fair  flowers  that  bloomed  so  tenderly! 

The  pale,  pure  star  of  Poesy! 

My  one  blest   guide  when  night  is  drear; 
Fair  flowers  that  bloomed  so  tenderly, 

Would  now  ye  smiled  upon  me  here! 

My   one  blest  guide  when  night  is  drear; 

Her  light  still  cheers  my  wayward  soul; 
Would  now  thou  smiledst  upon  me  here, 

Dear  star  of  Love — the  billows  roll ! 

Her  light  still  cheers  my  wayward  soul, 
Lend  too,  O  Love,  thy  steadfast  shine! 

Dear  star  of   Love,   the  billows   roll! 

Why  cheer'st  thou  not  this  heart  of  mine? 

Lend  too,  O  Love,  thy  steadfast  shine! 

Then  might  the  white-walled  haven  gleam; 
Why  cheer'st  thou  not  this  heart  of  mine, 

Sweet  guide  of  each  night-opening  dream? 

Then  might  the  white-walled  haven  gleam, 

Calm  port  of  rest,  fulfilled  desires; 
Sweet  guide  of  each  night-opening  dream, 

Thy  charm  would  gild  its  lofty  spires! 

Calm  port  of  rest,  fulfilled  desires — 

It  were  a  paradise  with  thee! 
Thy  charm  would  gild  its  lofty  spires; 

Where  may  I  that  bright  haven  see? 


220  THE  HEART'S  VOYAGE 

It  were  a  paradise  with  thee! 

Ah,  how  the  cloudy  streamers  fly! 
Where  may  I  that  bright  haven  see? 

How  swift  my  light  bark  glideth  by! 

Ah,  how  the  cloudy  streamers  fly! 

My  all  too  trustful  day  is  o'er; 
How  swift  my  light  bark  glideth  by 

Youth's  all-enchanting  tropic  shore! 


O   SOVEREIGN    LOVE 
(Rondeau) 

O  SOVEREIGN  LOVE !  there  is  no  fear  or  stress 
May  shake  thy  follower's  rapt  devotedness ; 
Heaven  hath  no  bliss  surpassing  this  of  thine; 
Thy  favor  makes  the  face  of  care  to  shine 
And  clothes  the  cruel  with  thy  tenderness! 

Lean  from  thy  heaven!  the  wearied  spirit  bless, 
Fair  youthful  god,  to  whom  all  hearts  confess; 

Let  not  thy  servants  unrequited  pine, 
O  Sovereign  Love! 

Thy  arms  round  lives  of  earth  born  labor  press 
And  soothe  them  with  thy  pure  and  soft  caress; 

Warm  the  dull  spirit  with  thy  flame  divine; 

To  all  who  pray  thee  straight  thy  joy  consign; 
Yea,  banish  pain — bring  sweet  forgetfulness, 
O  Sovereign  Love! 


221 


THE   VISION   OF  THE   DIS   DEBAR 

(  Villanelle} 

THROUGH  the  visions  of  the  nights 
What  is  this  my  fancy  sees? 
'Tis    the   Dis    Debar   in    tights! 

Oh,    of   all    the   awesome  sights 

That  do   oft  the  senses   freeze 
Through  the  visions  of  the  nights; 

This  one  most  my  spirit  frights — 

This  one  surely  takes  the  cheese! 
'Tis   the   Dis  Debar   in   tights! 

All  ye  gamesome  Harlem  wights, 

Saw  ye  ever  limbs  like  these 
Through  the  visions  of  the  nights? 

There  behind  the  platform  lights 

Nightly  doth  fair  Cupid  wheeze; 
'Tis  the  Dis  Debar  in  tights! 

Still  she  haunts  me,  queen  of  sprites, 

Sighing  like  a  gusty  breeze 
Through  the  visions  of  the  nights — 
'Tis  the  Dis  Debar  in  tights! 


222 


E 


TRIOLETS 

VERY  age  has  its  craze, 
Our  day  has  the  maddest; 

'Tis  a  bric-a-brac  phase. 

Every  age  has  its  craze, 

But  of  all  work  in   "clays" 
This  "crockery's"  the  "saddest." 

Every  age  has  its  craze. 
Our  day  has  the  maddest. 


Since  Bellamy's  book 

The  world's  gone  demented. 

All's  "social  outlook" 

Since  Bellamy's  book; 

The  co-operative  cook 

Is  the  last  thing  invented. 

Since  Bellamy's  book 

The  world's  gone  demented. 

Nina  pouted  when  I  said 

All  her  sex  are  like  Pandora; 
But  I  straightway  pleased  the  maid 

When  I  called  her  my  Aurora. 
Flatter  well  the  fair,  ye  men, 

If  you'd  have  your  faith  undoubted. 
Tell  them  not  the  truth,  as  when 

Nina  pouted. 

223 


QUATRAINS 


THE    QUATRAIN 

As  thru  a  prism  strains  the  circling  sky, 
Packed  in  four  lines  how  much  of  life  may  lie ; 
Yet  flashing  forth  its  radiance  down  the  years ; — 
A  diamond  flinging  pent  fire  to  the  spheres. 


T 


THE    UNIVERSAL    LIFE 

HE  mountain's  brooks  divide,  yet  from  one  source 
They  plenish  all  the  fruitful  fields  below; 
So  from  the  central,  sole,  eternal  force, 

The  strong,  life-giving  streams  of  Nature  flow. 


STANDING-ROOM 

"A  PLACE  to  stand,  and   I  will  move  the  world!" 
So  cried  the  wise-browed  Syracusan  seer; 

Whereon  to  stand  ?    Ay,  had  we  that,  unfurled 
Across  the  age  what  banners  Truth  would  rear ! 


THE    WORLD-MAELSTROM    OF    THE    WEST 

HERE  seethes  the  o'erflow  of  Nations;  from  all  shores 
Earth's  human  rivers  mix  in  one  embrace; 

Yet  through  this  myriad-tided  ocean  pours 
The  Gulf-stream  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race. 


KNOWLEDGE  AND  WISDOM 

KNOWLEDGE  is  Wisdom's  hand-maid;  oft  her  gown 
The  servant  dons — a  masquerade  complete; 

Then  goes  she  aping  Wisdom  up  and  down, 
And  few  there  are  who  recognize  the  cheat. 
227 


228  QUATRAINS 


PENUEL 

NOTHING  of  value  comes  unearned  to  man; 

The  storm  that  scathes,  roots  yet  more  deep  the  trunk; 
All  striving  tells  in  earnest  Nature's  plan; 

Still  wrest  the  blessing  though  your  thigh  be  shrunk. 


EVOLUTION 

SOUL  is  developed  Nature;  from  the  sod 

Grows  soul-stuff;  Nature's  but  a  thrifty  wife; 

The  field-flowers  claim  us  kindred  with  a  nod, 
And  mothers  kiss  the  babes  that  sap  their  life. 


LOVE 

LOVE  is  the  rose  of  life,  its  natural  zest, 
Its  daily  bourgeon  woos  the  circling  air; 

When  Cupid  plants  it  in  some  maid's  warm  breast, 
Its  perfume  doubles  and  'tis  doubly  fair. 


ON    CERTAIN    ACADEMICIANS 

THEIR  skill  is  all  mosaic;  rule  of  thumb 

Guides  every  groping  hand  and  squinting  eye, 

Ask  for  imagination — they  are  dumb; 

Point  them  to  truth  and,  lo,  they  choose  a  lie! 


QUATRAINS  229 

OLD  AND  NEW  ART 

NATURE  was  with  the  souls  of  olden  time, 

They  loved  her,  spoused  her,  were  by  her  misled; 

We  are  like  husbands  long  outpast  their  prime, 
We  know  her  moods — but  passion  now  is  dead. 


TO   CERTAIN   CRITICS 

WOODPECKER-LIKE,  intent  on  drilling  holes, 
You  seek  nor  leaf  nor  blossom  on  the  tree; 

And  cuckoo-like  you  echo  other  souls, 

And  hatch  your  changelings  for  a  beggar's  fee. 


THE   BASIC   FORCE 

RHYTHM  must  vibrate  through  the  poet's  mind 
Ere  he  can  urge  his  verse  to  throb  and  glow, 

And  feeling  mount  upon  the  spirit's  wind 
Before  the  master-player  draws  his  bow. 


THE   CONVENTIONAL   PARSON 

EVEN  the  cholera  is  scarce  his  peer; 

The  droning  pulpit  prig,  how  dread  is  he! 
One  lays  your  body  breathless  on  the  bier; 
The  other  plagues  your  soul  and  takes  a  fee. 


230  QUATRAINS 

MIDAS  AND  COMPANY 

MIDAS,  'tis  said,  turned  all  he  touched  to  gold; 

"Wise  act!"  we  cry,  "how  few  his  worthy  peers!" 
His  type  how  well  preserved!     It  grows  not  old; 

But  what  a  price  to  pay  for  Ass's  Ears! 


CAVE   CANEM! 

XANTIPPE  worsted  Socrates,  and  few 

Petruchios  conquer  where  are  hosts  undone. 

Even  cunning  Marlborough  could  not  curb  his  shrew; 
The  moral?     Lovers,  read  it  as  you  run! 


PEGASUS   AT    PASTURE 

POPE,   Milton,  Byron,  bankrupt  poets  these; 

The  rustics  now  have  taken  all  the  trade; 
Long   live  the    Hoosier   bards!    down    on   your   knees 

To  Cracker  slang  and  Yankee  gasconade! 


ORTHODOX   LIBERALISM 

THE  Troy  of  creeds  is  down — the  Greeks  are  in; 

The  new  y£neas  flees  the  falling  wrack; 
Seeking  new  lands  he  staggers  from  the  din, 

Anchises  and  his  gods  athwart  his  back. 


QUATRAINS  231 

THE  POETS  AND  MAMMON 

POETS,  like  Swabia's  free  Knights  of  old, 
Build  proud  and  high  their  castles  in  the  air; 

Then    Mammon    comes,    invests   their   straitened   hold, 
And  Rudolf-like  demands  allegiance  there. 


SONNETS    AND    SONNETEERS 

MOST  rhymesters  now  are  jewelers,  and  would  fain 
Their  deft-carved  cherry-stones  for  cameos  sell; 

Like  amateurs,  who  play  the  moody  Dane, 

The   counterfeit   may   pass — not    "passing   well." 


THE  SHAKESPEAREAN  SONNET 

LEAVE   the  strict  mould   to   Petrarch's  plastic  hand, 
And  frame  your  verse  to  Shakespeare's  form  divine; 

In  that  the  sweetest,  loftiest  thoughts  expand; 
The  brave  "fourteener"  comes  of  English  line. 


POETS    AND    POETASTERS 

THE  hoarsest  rhymesters,  blundering  in  the  dark, 
Most  clamorous  are  for  an  immortal  name; 

Still  croaks  and  puffs  the  frog;  the  thrush  and  lark 
Are  not  inflated  with  desire  for  fame. 


232  QUATRAINS 

ON   THE   SPIRITUAL   BARNUM 

WERE  I  compelled  to  bide  a  donkey's  bray, 

I'd  choose  a  time  the  beast's  turned  out  to  grass; 

I'd  never  of  my  own  volition  stay 
To  hear  a  roof  reverberate  an  ass. 


TRUTH 

TRUTH  is  the  lode-star  of  free  thought — nor  can 
He  earn  its  guidance  who  is  thrall  to  pelf; 

Nor  shall  he  gain  perspective  view  of  man 
Until  his  shadow  shortens  to  himself. 


TO    SOME    NEW    CRITICS 

"ScoTT  is  no  master!"  no,  my  dainty  soul, 
Weaving  your  cobweb  verse  or  etching  prose? 

You  new  time  Delia-Cruscan ! — centuries  roll, — 
He's  Britain's  Homer;  who  are  you?  who  knows? 


FANCY 

THE  chord  of  Fancy  is  the  slenderest  string 
In  rich  Imagination's  varied  lyre; 

And  yet  some  novice  hand  might  make  it  ring 
Above  the  chorus  of  the  veteran  choir. 


QUATRAINS  233 

SELF-KNOWLEDGE 

MOST  men  desire  yet  fear  to  stand  revealed 

Unto  themselves;  when  forced,  aghast  they  stare, 

As  captives,  long  from  life  and  light  concealed, 
Start  at  their  shadows  in  the  sunlit  air! 


TRUE    AND    FALSE    FAME 

No  mushroom  is  true  fame;  its  hardy  shoot 
Springs  not  the  seedless  changeling  of  a  night; 

The  soft,  sweep  rasp  is  summer's  briefest  fruit; 
The  firm-grained  apple  mellows  with  time's  flight. 


BERANGER 

LIKE  an  aeolian  harp  his  tense-drawn  soul 
Echoes  the  varying  voice  of  France's  will; 

Oft  as  she  breathes  her  joy  or  bitter  dole, 

Those  rhythmic,  trembling  heart-strings  answer  still. 


THE    RULE    OF    RAPACITY 

THE  robber  sea-kings'  rule  left  traces  here, 

Though  not  in  mouldering  cairns  along  our  coast; 

Our  Danes  to-day  in  legal  rapine  rear 

The    Raven — plundering   with    protecting   host. 


234  QUATRAINS 

THE    PROFLIGATE    OF    KINDNESS 

YQU'D  dwell  respected?  hold  yourself  aloof, 

Nor  spread  your  cloak  too  freely  for  your  friend; 

The  kindest  hearts  win   ever  most  reproof, 
And  earn  the  ass's  nettles  in  the  end. 


TRAITS    OF   WOMEN 

FLOUT  her  who  loves  you  and  she  grows  more  fond; 

Yield  to  her  whims — she   will  your   grace  despise; 
She  has  no  magnanimity  beyond 

Her  gift  of  patience  and  her  partial  eyes. 


THE   INVINCIBLE   SEX 

THERE  is  no  armor  'gainst  a  woman's  eyes; 

Excalibur  could   not   foil  her  dextrous  wit; 
And  when  her  tears  join  forces  with  her  sighs 

The  doughtiest  heroes  are  the  hardest  hit. 


THE    CURSE    OF    THE    COQUETTE 

THERE  is  no  fool,  however  wise  he  be, 

Like  him,  the  pensioner  of  a  woman's  smile; 

No  tyrant  lives  so  dead  to  ruth  as  she 

Who  pillories  hearts  and  poisons  faith  with  guile. 


DOUBLE  QUATRAINS  235 

ARTIFICIAL  REFINEMENT 

THE  hot-house  nurtured  woman  more  and  more 
Would  make  men  slaves,  her  bears  to  dance  at  will ; 

Our  Ninons  know  their  business  to  the  core, 
While  o'er-exacting  prudes  die  virgins  still. 


WOMAN'S  HEART 

OH,  miracle  of  mysteries,  woman's  heart! 

Misleading  ever,  even  when  meaning  true; — 
As  Gama's  sailors  conned  the  ancient  chart, 

With  risk  and  fear  we  steer  our  course  by  you. 


DOUBLE  QUATRAINS 

LIFE 

PILOT,  what  gleam  is  that?    What  means  that  sounding 

Through  the  dim  night  afar? 
Soul,  'tis  the  breakers  of  the  ocean  pounding 

Against  the  harbor  bar! 

Oh,  helmsman,  steer  your  bark  by  yon  fixed  beacon 

Against  the  swerving  tide; 
Keep  well  your  course,  nor  let  your  vigil  weaken 

Till  you  in  safety  ride! 


DOUBLE  QUATRAINS 


THE  ILIAD 

FROM  vast,  unfathomed  deeps  of  ages  gone, 

Swelling  in  surge  and  gathering  voice  sublime, 

Crested  with  froth  of  legendary  dawn, 

A  lordly  wave  sweeps  up  the  shores  of  time. 

Lo,  how  it  roars  through  all  the  bays  and  creeks, 
Strewing  its  wealth  of  ocean  treasures  rare; 

Hark — now  tall  Hector  thunders  on  the  Greeks! 
Look — how  Achilles  shakes  his  shining  hair! 


THE  PRESS 

"PALLADIUM  of  Liberties"  'tis  called; 

The  skillet-lid  of  faction  might  be  writ ; 
The  editorial  clothesman  stands  installed 

To  sell  you  mental  garments  that  will  fit. 

'Tis  Argus  and  Briareus  in  one, 

And  yet  'tis  frailest  of  all  things  of  power  ; 
It  quickens,  brightens,  searches  like  the  sun, 

And  changes  ever  with  the  changeful  hour. 


DOUBLE  QUATRAINS  237 


THE  YEARS  OF  LIFE 


IN  happy  Youth  Time  goes  with  lingering  feet, 
And  Hope,  Life's  herald,  swiftly  speeds  before, 

But,  as  we  age,  Time's  pace  becomes  more  fleet, 
And  Hope  toils  fainting  or  is  seen  no  more. 


Thus  Heaven's  compassion  gives  to  pilgrim  man 
The  brightest  summer  with  the  longest  days, 

And  crowds  the  waning  year  in  narrowing  span 
Down  to  the  silent  parting  of  the  ways. 


HUMAN  EXISTENCE 


LIFE  is  the  sap-flow  from  the  natal  gloom, 
Combining,  mingling  each  essential  force ; ' 

The  Soul  is  life's  refined,  consummate  bloom, 

And  Sense,  the  leaves,  which  are  life's  outer  source. 


Mind  is  the  pistil  where  Thought's  pollen  clings, 
Love  is  the  perfume  of  the  dewy  hours; 

Genius,  the  bee  with  swift  and  patient  wings 
Whom  God  hath  sent  to  fertilize  the  flowers. 


238  DOUBLE  QUATRAINS 


TRUTH 


TRUTH — what  is  Truth?    Ah,  yet  the  mystery  stands 

Veiled  in  the  tissues  of  Eternal  Will; 
And,  as  of  old,  upon  Arabian  sands, 

The  world  asks  Pilate's  vexing  question  still. 


Yet  inch  by  inch  the  drapery  drops  away 
And  bares  vast  outlines  of  a  shaped  intent ; 

Yet  gleam  on  gleam  springs  up  the  brighter  day, 
Till  earth  with  heaven  in  Isis'  smile  is  blent. 


SHAKESPEARE 


"SWEET  Swan  of  Avon,"  one  who  loved  him  well — 

A  rival  of  that  gladiatorial  day — 
Called  our  loved  Shakespeare ;  and  no  sweeter  spell 

Than  Shakespeare's  ever  held  the  world  in  sway. 


Nor  yet  a  mightier — with  a  grace  sublime 

The  Greek  had  worshipped  in  his  proudest  year, 

He  strikes  the  key-note  of  all  after  time, 
And  shows  all  nature  in  a  smile  or  tear! 


DOUBLE  QUATRAINS  239 


THE   HUMBLE-BEE 


HE  is  the  thriftiest  of   the  Buccaneers 
Who  sails   to   every   port    among   the   flowers, 

And  gathers  golden  tribute  and  then  steers 
To  wassail  it  away  in  winter  hours. 


And  like  the  mightiest  Tudor  is  his  queen, 
Who  in  her  hive  presides  o'er  his  increase, 

And  sends  him  forth  to  scour  the  seas  of  green, 
The  Gloriana  of  his  war  and  peace. 


HOPE   AND    DESPAIR 


A  GHASTLY  crag,  stark  against  lowering  skies, 
Beneath  whose  brow  black  sullen  water  lies; 

One  spectral   tree  upon  it,  barked  and  bare, 
Where   a   blind   raven   mopes — that   is   Despair. 


A  vision   in  the  desert's  central   grave, 

Where  crystal  waters  gleam  and  palm-trees  wave, 
A  caravan  beneath  the  burning  cope, 

Expecting  blest   possession — this   is   Hope. 


240  DOUBLE  QUATRAINS 


FAITH   AND   LOVE 


FAITH  like  an  eagle  on  aspiring  wing 
Looks  up  undazzled  to  her  God  on  high, 

Scorning  the  earth,  ay,  every  earth-born  thing, 
Beyond  the  pinnacle  where  her  fledglings  lie. 


But  Love,  as  bravely  pinioned,  turns  and  keeps 
Her  wings  above  us  while  the  tempest  raves, 

Like  the  white  albatross,  and,  like  her,  sleeps 
Rocked  on  the  inconstant  bosom  of  the  waves. 


PLEASURE    AND    JOY 


PLEASURE,  a  sylph  with  gay  transparent  wings, 
Hath   flattery's  smile,   and   like   a  siren  sings; 
But  if  you  strive  to  bind  the  flitting  sprite, 
She'll  off  and  send  you  Sorrow  out  of  spite. 


But   Joy,   her   gentler   sister,   oft   is   found 
Musing  in  nooks  and  pacing  holy  ground; 
And  oft  a  tender  tear-drop  dims  her  eye, 
And  oft  she  breathes  her  rapture  through  a  sigh. 


BALLADS 


CANADA  TO  ENGLAND 

WE  come  to  your  call,  O  Mother,  great  mother  of  stead- 
fast men ; 
The  days  of  earth  are  darkened,  the  morrow  beyond  our 

ken; 

Stress  of  war  is  upon  us,  the  star  of  Empire  shines, 
A  clouded  and  glimpsing  beacon  along  the  battle  lines. 

But  know  by  the  God  above  us,  by  the  tale  of  a  thousand 

years, 
By  the  blood  of  our  countless  heroes,  by  the  rain  of  our 

women's  tears, 
By  the  faith  in  our  past  and  future,  wherever  our  standards 

fly, 

We  pledge  our  souls  to  this  service,  are  prepared  in  this 
cause  to  die. 

Do  not  forget,  dear  Mother,  we  have  proved  our  faith  of 

old; 
Those  memories  of  pain  and  struggle  have  not  in  our  hearts 

grown  cold; 
Here  in  the  homes  they  cherished,  the  fire  that  holds  and 

strives 
Once  warmed  the  breasts  of  our  fathers,  they  suffered  and 

gave  their  lives. 

On  the  dank  rice  fields  of  India,  on  the  sun-scorched  kopjed 

veldt, 
On  the  snow-swept  hills  of  Crimea,  our  manhood  was  tried 

and  felt; 

243 


244  CANADA  TO  ENGLAND 

From  the  times  of  Wolfe  and  Amherst  to  "Twelve,"  to  th< 

Transvaal  days, 
We  have  lustred  our  country's  annals,  we  have  fought  anc 

earned  your  praise. 

Now  in  our  prouder  freedom,  here  in  our  fuller  strength 
Round   every   field   and    forest,    through   our    great   land'; 

breadth  and  length, 

To  every  city  and  village,  to  every  ranch  and  mine, 
Your  call  to  the  children  echoes  to  fill  the  battle  line. 

Far  off  the  fisher  hears  it  on  the  Banks  of  Newfoundland 
The  coasting  trader  hears  it  off  Fundy's  fog-bound  strand 
The  lonely  woodsman  hears  it  on  the  rafts  of  Temiscaming 
The  call  of  the  Mother  in  harness,  "Bring  me  your  thou 
sands — bring!" 

We  are  coming,  O  Trident  Wielder,  we  are  coming  ter 

thousand  score; 

The  seven-fold  shield  is  lifted  high  on  Valcartier's  shore 
The  flag  that  tripped  stern  Cronje,  the  flag  of  a  hundrec 

fights, 
Is  flying  to-day  for  battle  with  the  spirit  of  Queenstowr 

Heights. 

To  every  shore  of  the  British  around  the  Seven  Seas, 
The  sons  of  the  soil  come  trooping,  their  banners  aslant  th( 

breeze ; 

They  will  not  fail  you,  Mother,  their  best  are  freely  given 
With  hearts  for  England's  honor,  with  souls  by  Freedorr 

shriven. 

Hail  to  the  Three-Cross  standard,  with  its  streaming  blood- 
red  field! 

Hail  to  the  bright-leaved  Maple,  hail  to  the  Seven-fold 
Shield! 


CANADA  TO  ENGLAND  245 

Hail  to  the  stout  Four  Nations,  Britons  of  blood  renowned 
Who  carry  our  old   time  prowess   to  the  ocean's  outmost 
bound. 

And  hail  to  you,  Mother  England,  proud  mother  of  stal- 
wart men, 

As  you  sprang  to  front  Napoleon,  you  are  grasping  the 
spear  again. 

Hark,  do  you  hear  our  trumpets!  as  in  the  past  days  of  pain, 

We  march  to  strike  for  Freedom,  to  strike  for  the  whole 
world's  gain. 

Never  the  English  spirit  sheathes  the  reluctant  sword, 
Till  the  reaping  days  are  ended  for  the  Harvest  of  the  Lord ; 
Woe  to  the  proud  oppressor  who  follows  ambition's  lure 
To  the  lair  of  the  angry  lion,  the  Lion  of  Agincourt. 

And  shall  the  God-flaunting  Teuton  shake  in  our  face  his 

gyves, 
Trample   the  weaker   nations   and   mangle  our   babes   and 

wives  ? 

Roar  "Deutschland  iiber  Alles"  to  the  torch-fed  cities  glow; 
In  the  name  of  the  Great  Protector,  in  the  name  of  Nelson, 

No! 

Lead  out,  lead  out,  Brave  Mother,  for  the  sake  of  sacked 

Louvain ! 

Give  us  our  own  Smith-Dorrien,  yield  us  the  van  again! 
By  our  pledge  to  martyred  Belgium,  in  the  cause  of  harried 

France, 
Sound  the  unbending  onset,  let  the  bugle  scream,  ADVANCE  ! 


THE    BONNET    BLUE 

HE  day  is  done,  the  gloaming  hour 
A     For  lovers'  trysts  is  near, 
And  she  hath  left  her  turret  bower 

To  meet  her  cavalier. 
She  is  the  daughter  of  the  earl 

For  whom  the  counties  sue, 
And  he's  the  grandson  of  a  churl, 
And  wears  a  bonnet  blue. 

Oh,  sweeter  is  the  whispered  vow 

For  what  might  come  between. 
No  likelier  youth   than  he,  I  trow, 

Was  e'er  in  greenwood  seen. 
No  grace  than  hers  is  more  divine, 

No  heart  more  fond  and  true; 
She  lets  the  lordly  suitors  pine 

To  pledge  a  Bonnet  Blue. 

She  thinks  upon  her  lofty  state 

And  drops  a  pensive  tear; 
She  looks  upon  her  lowly  mate 

And  she  is  straight  in  cheer. 
He  holds  her  in  his  strong  embrace, 

He  plights  his  troth  anew; 
She  dreads  not  donger  nor  disgrace 

Beside  her  Bonnet  Blue. 
246 


THE  BONNET  BLUE  247 

Next  morn  the  bower  maidens  wait 

In  vain  their  mistress'  call; 
The  servers  stand  with  cup  and  plate, 

The  vassals  throng  the  hall. 
But  where  is  she,  the  proudest  born, 

The  fairest  Scotland  knew? 
She  wedded  ere  the  blush  of  morn 

Her  dear  loved  Bonnet  Blue! 


SOLDIERS'    HOME 

WHAT,  Pete  Hawes?    I'm  glad  to  see  you; 

Stand  up  closer,  near  the  light! 
Just  the  match  of  when  I  faced  you, 

Old  Pete  Hawes,  at  Shiloh  fight. 
You  come  chargin'  up  with  Longstreet, 

I   with   Wallace   kep'   the  hill; 
Say,   old    Reb,   my   schoolboy   crony, 

P'raps   that  wa'nt   a  scrumptious  mill. 

'Member,    Pete,   you'd   lost   your   shako? 

How  you  puffed  as  on   you  came! 
Just  as  many  a  time  I've  seen  you 

In  some  rough  an'  tumble  game. 
With  your  face   as  red's  a  turkey's, 

An'  your  hair  not  dressed  to  kill; 
You  jumped  at  me  with  the  bay 'net, — 

Didn't  you  thrust  it  with  a  will! 

But  I've  played  at  "prisoner's  base,"  boy; 

There  I  learned  a  trick  or  two, 
And  I  dodged  or  that  derned  bay'net 

Sure  as  guns  had  run  me  through. 
Gosh!   it  sot  my   dander   risin', 

An'  I  grabbed  my  gunstock  tight; 
If   I'd  let   the  daylight  through   you 

It  had  served  you  blamed  well  right. 

Fur,  you  mind,   you'd  stumbled   forward, 
An'  before  you'd  got  your  feet 

You'd   a'   been   the  prettiest   corpus 
That  was  ever  made  dog  meat; 
248 


SOLDIERS'  HOME  249 

Fur  I'd  draw'd  my  skewer  this  way, 

Up  an'  back  to  sock  it  well; 
All   the   chance   you'd   then   for   livin' 

Could  crept  in  a  walnut  shell. 

But  as  quick  as  lightnin'  on  me 

Come  the  thought  of  childhood  days, 
When   we  used   to   fight,   play   hookey, 

Ride  down  hill,  tell  yarns  and   laze; 
So    I    hadn't   heart    to   do    it, — 

Rammed  the  butt  end  in  your  breast, 
An'   you    tumbled    down    the    earthwork; 

Went   to   bed   already   dressed. 

Three  times  up  the  hill  like  tigers 

Charge   on   charge   you    rebels  came, 
An'   we  druv'  you  back  as  many; 

Our   boys'   blood  was  up  and   game. 
Thunder,   how  our   Sniders  rattled! 

You  chaps  tumbled  by  the  score; 
That  blow  saved  your  life,   my  hearty, 

Guess  you'd   seen   the   other   shore. 

When  you  rebs  got  tired  of  maulin', 

Left  us  masters  of  the  field, 
There  I  found  you,   Pete,   a-lyin' 

Like  a  Roman  on  his  shield; 
With  three  dead  men  piled  on  top  you, 

T'other  one  beneath  your  head; 
'Twas  a  cur'ous  kind  of  cover, 

Fine  old  bolster  fur  you*  bed. 

Then  I   fished  you  out,  all  dazed  like, 

Blinkin'  awkward  with  your  eyes; 
Poured   you   down    a   horn   of    brandy, 

Druv'   away  the  pesky  flies; 


250  SOLDIERS'  HOME 

Then  I  felt  three  ribs  was  broken, 
Didn't  mean  to  hit  so  rough, 

But  when  men  for  life  is  strikin' 
They're  dead  sure  to  strike  enough. 

An'  you  can't  say,  Pete,  old  feller, 

That  I  didn't  treat  you  square, 
Though  they  might  a'  used  you  rough  like 

In  the  prison  over  there; 
Twice,  my  boy,   I  sent  terbacker 

By  some  chaps  was  goin'  back; 
'T wasn't   much,   but   I   was  thinkin'd 

Keep  your  wits  from  gettin'  slack. 

An'  I  see  you  live  and  chipper, 

Like  a  rooster  up  at  morn; 
I,   you  see,  was  not  so  lucky, 

Got  laid  up,  was  badly  worn; 
And  I  see  you  notice,  Peter, 

I've   three   legs   in   place  of  two, 
Them's  my  stumpers  in  the  corner, — 

Ain't  they  hansum  pegs,  fur  true? 

How'd  I  lose  it?     O  at  Vicksburg, — 

Knocked  off  by  a  Parrot  ball; 
Then  they  sent  me  here,  I've  been  here 

These  three  years  come  late  in  fall; 
But  now  sit  ye  down,  old  hearty, 

Smoke  your  pipe  and  drink  your  can; 
I  was  Blue  an'  you  was  Grey,  lad, 

But  we're  both  yet  solid  man. 

Blame  them  blasted  politicians 
Holdin'  up  the  bloody  shirt; 

If  they'd  not  that  rag  to  cling  to 
They'd  be  in  some  other  dirt; 


SOLDIERS'  HOME  251 

But  for  us  as  seen  the  service 

We'll  remember  Shiloh's  day; 
Grab,  old  pard,  your  horn  of  plenty, — 

Here's,  my  boy,  the  Blue  and  Grey! 


GOOD    SAINT    VALENTINE 

KIND  Cupid,  god  of  tender  wiles, 
Who  rules  the  hearts  of  men, 
Great   Sovereign   lord   of   tears  and  smiles 

And  of  the  lyrist's  pen, 
Is  my  dear  love  still  true  to  me 

As  e'er  he  was  lang-syne? 
What  message  from  him  o'er  the  sea 
Brings  good  Saint  Valentine? 

He  brought  my  lover  first  to  me; — 

As  from  my  dreams  he  came; 
Full-browed  with  thought  supremacy, 

His  voice  a  thrilling  flame; 
And   wit   that   like   a  rapier   flew 

To  clip  the  sparks  from  mine, — 
While  blithe,  a  day-bright  laugh  he  threw 

To  good  Saint  Valentine. 

A  gallant,  handsome,  fearless,  proud, 

As  e'er  was  hawk  on  wrist, 
With  every  manly  grace  endowed, 

True  steel  to  plighted   tryst. 
He  pressed  his  parting  on  my  lips, 

Then  said,  his  hand  in  mine, 
"I'll  write,  my  dear,  when  come  the  ships 

Of   good   Saint  Valentine!" 

The  ships  are  past  the  harbor  bar, 

All  anchored  nigh  the  quay; 
Each  sail  gleams  like   the  happy  star 

Of  Love's  nativity, 
252 


GOOD  SAINT  VALENTINE  253 

But  has  my  dear  one  sent  his  word 

Beneath  his  signet's  sign?—- 
Come  tell  me  tidings,  wandering  bird, 

Of  good   Saint  Valentine! 

Uncourteous  bird ! — no  message  kind 

By  page  or  marinere! 
There's  but  the  sobbing  of  the  wind 

Along   the   lonely   brere; 
O    where's    thy    token,    blue   sea   wave, 

To  light  this  care  of  mine! 
Oh,  sigh  not,  wind,  as  from  his  grave, 

For  good  Saint  Valentine! 

This  tree  is  ours  where  last  we  met, 

And  carved  here  on  the  rind, 
Within   the   green   moss-livery   set, 

Our  names  stand  intertwined; 
O  tree,  tell  me  what  wind  of  love 

Brings  thee  his  whispered  sign: 
I'll  carve  the  dear  words  here  above 

For  good   Saint  Valentine. 


She  heard  no  step  across  the  leaves — 

She  saw  no  snow-white  plume; 
She  gazed  where  bound  in  glittering  sheaves 

The  sunbeams  lanced  the  gloom, 
Then  started  with  a  sudden  shriek: 

He  clasped  her, — "Mistress  mine, 
He's  come  himself  his  word  to  speak 

For   good   Saint  Valentine!" 


THE    EARL'S    DAUGHTER 

THOU  hast  my  secret,  I  have  told 
All,  all,  my  father,  even  his  name; 
My  love  hath  made  my  duty  bold; 
I  can  for  his  sake  bear  thy  blame; 
Here  am  I,  all  thy  anger  prove; 

'Twill   root  him   deeper   in   my   love. 

What  though  his  be  no  princely  race, 
Must  pride  then  tear  two  souls  apart? 

Lo,   worth    is   stamped   upon   his    face, 
Nobility  is  in   his  heart. 

No  knight  of  all  thy  halls  so   free 
To  do  proud  deeds  of  chivalry. 

I  loathed  the  high-born  butterflies, 

That  paid  me  court  with  fawning  smiles; 

I    hated    all   their   varnished    lies, 

Despised  their  mean,  transparent  wiles, 

He  seemed  to  all  that  smirking  band 
A  prince  who  held  in  his  bare  hand 

More  honor  than  their  gilded  scrolls, 

More  worth  than  all  their  leagues  of  land; 

How   trifling  seemed   their   little  souls 
By  that  high  look  and  bearing  grand; 

Might  he  not  scorn  their  borrowed  fame 
And  accident  of  noble  name? 
254 


THE  EARL'S  DAUGHTER  255 

Thou  frown'st — I  know  what  thou  wouldst  say — 

I'd  lower  forsooth  thy  honored  race; 
Yet  our  forefathers  in  their  day 

Plucked  fame  from  even  as  low  a  place; 
'Tis   worth    from   which    all   honor    springs; 

Without  it,  crowns  disgrace  their  Kings! 

How  came  it  that  I  loved  him  then? 

I  had  a  heart  could  match  his  own; 
Had  he  been  more  like  other  men 

He  might  have  loved — but  he   alone. 
Where   have    the   schoolmen    writ   in   books 

That   eagles  ever  mated   rooks? 

Threat  me  with  no  false,  loathed  tie — 

My  spirit  ne'er  would  brook  to  be 
The  slave  of  low  desires,   to  die 

Were  then  my  soul's  last  liberty; 
Think'st  thou  this  breast  a  heart  doth  bear 

Less  free-willed  than  my  fathers'  were? 

Rememb'rest  when,  a  little  maid, 

I   pulled  some   wild-flowers   in   a  wood, 

And  of  them  did  a  chaplet  braid 
And  crowned  me  in  a  merry  mood, 

You  said,   "Sweet,   here's  a  wreath  more   rare," 
And   placed   these  jewels  on   my   hair. 

And  how  I  cast  the  gems  aside 

And  chose  my  floral  crown  instead, 
And  how  you  laughed  in  easy  pride 

And  said  a  shepherd  I  should  wed? 
I  were  content  to  wear  even  now 

That  humbler  garland  on  my  brow, 


256  THE  EARL'S  DAUGHTER 

And  with  its  emblems,  at  thy  feet 

Lay  state — lay  all  whereto  I'm  born; — 

Ay,   would   the   lowliest   fortunes  meet 
Ere  I  to  him  would  prove  forsworn! 

That   truly   is   dishonor's   part — 
To  lie  against  a  loving  heart. 

But  yet  I  know  that  thou  art  kind, 
I  know  thou  art  my  father  still; 

That  'tis  the  one  wish  of  thy  mind 
Thy  daughter's  heart  with  joy  to  fill  ; 

Could'st  thou  take  from  her  e'en  in  thought 
That,  without  which  all  else  were  nought? 

Dear  father,  is  not  true  love  fair? 

Unbend  that  frown  upon  thy  brow! 
My  father,  kind  beyond  compare, 

Thy    daughter's    heart    is    'gainst    thee    now! 
Dost  hear? — 'tis  the  warm  throb  in  mine 

Speaking  to  that  proud   beat  in  thine! 

Now  thou  dost  smile!  and  now  I  know 
That  thou  art  all  my  father  still; 

Why  do  my  tell-tale  blushes  glow? 
Father,  he  waiteth  on  thy  will! 

This  forward  youth,  forsooth,  would  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  bounty  free! 

Look  forth!    What  prince  hath  nobler  air? 

Hyperion  was  not  such  as  he! 
He  sees — he  bounds  the  castle  stair! 

And  now  he  kneeleth  at  thy  knee! 
Must  we  dismiss  him?     Say  you  so — 

This  forward  youth ?    My  father,  No/ 


THE    OLD    SABRE 

TURN  my  chair,  old  comrade,  toward  the  window, 
Where  the  sunbeams  fall 
On  my  old  and  rusty  battered  sabre, 

Hanging  on  the  wall; 
For  my  failing  eyes  would  look  upon  it 

Ere  I  breathe  my  last; 

How  like  burnished  gold  the  flaming  sunset 
On  its  blade  is  cast! 

For  three  generations  has  that  sabre 

Waved  amidst  the  fight; 
Many  a  blow  for  Freedom  it  has  stricken 

And  for  England's  right; 
For  my  father's  father  once  did  wear  it 

Through  the  Flanders  War, 
When   the   French   our   soldiers   under    Marlborough 

Followed  long  and  far. 

It  has  oft  in  battle  with  my  father 

To  the  hilt  been  dyed ; 
Twice  with  him  across  the  broad  Atlantic 

Was  its  temper  tried; 
Up  the  heights  of  Ti'  it  led  the  stormers; 

Downed  the  Oriflamme, 
When  with  gallant  Wolfe  it  faced  the  Frenchmen 

Under  stout    Montcalm. 

257 


258  THE  OLD  SABRE 

Me,  too,  it  has  served  in  many  a  battle 

On  the  Indian  sands, 
When  from  out  Mysore  black  Tippoo  Sahib 

Led  his  cut-throat  bands; 
And  on  many  a  field  of  Spain  I've  worn  it, 

From  the  days  when  Moore 
Marched  us  into  Leon,   fondly  trusting 

To  the  Spaniard's  lure. 

Yes!   I  won  my  stripes  as  color-sergeant 

On  Vimiera's  height, 
When  I,  wounded,  reeled  all  sick  and  bloody 

From  the  desperate  fight; 
How  we  chased  the  cowed  and  beaten  Frenchmen 

Through  the  fields  of  Spain! 
Drove  them  out  of  Andalusian  vineyard 

And   Castilian  plain! 

And  my  sword  waved  victor  from  the  Tagus 

To  the  Pyrenees; 
Loud  we  cheered  as  forth  our  colors  floated 

To  the  mountain  breeze; 
How    we   smashed    Soult's    scarred    and    veteran    legions, 

Laid  his  eagles  low; 
My  old  comrade,  Wellesley,  king  of  heroes, 

Led  us  on  the  foe! 

But  my  sabre's  crowning  hour  of  triumph 

Was  that  day  in  June, 
When  we  Guardsmen   gathered   under   Picton 

To  the  cannon's  tune; 
When  we  formed  across  the  miry  corn-field, 

Mid  the  trampled  rye, 
And  we  spied  out  Boney's  hundred  banners 

Flaunting  to  the  sky. 


THE  OLD  SABRE  259 

And  my  old  and  rusty  battered  sabre 

As  I  gripped  it  fast, 
Seemed  to  thrill  unto  my  heart's  quick  beating 

With  its  glories  past; 
For  the  Iron  Duke  still  looked  upon  us 

And  we  thought  of  home, 
And  we  vowed  we'd  be  no  slaves  to  Frenchmen 

And  the  dogs  of  Rome. 

See  that  nick  upon  the  edge!  'twas  cleft  there 

By  a  cuirassier, 
As  he  sideways  leaned  from  out  his  saddle, 

When  in  full  career; 
And  you  see  the  point  is  turned  and  broken, — 

'Twas  the  thrust  I  sped 
Through  the  ribs  of  a  frog-eater  did  it 

As  I  stretched  him  dead ! 

Give  me  here  the  grand  old  sabre,  comrade ! 

For  my  failing  hand 
Would  at  touch  with  new  life  nerve  and  quicken 

Of  my  trusty  brand; 
How  as  light  as  reed  it  bent  and  quivered 

In  my  sinewy  grasp! 
Hardly  now  my  palsied,  trembling  ringers, 

Round  the  hilt  I  clasp! 

Fades  the  daylight,  and  the  sunbeams  waver, 

And  their  lustres  fall; 
And  the  deepening  shadows  of  the  twilight 

Chase  them  from  the  wall; 
And  my  life  is  slowly  ebbing,  ebbing, 

And  the  muffled  roll 
Of   a  drum  is  through  the  dimness   beating, 

Summoning  my  soul. 


260  THE  OLD  SABRE 

'Tis  the  order  of  the  Great  Commander 

Signalling  to  rest; 
Mother  land,   I've  loved  you  well,  I'm  dying 

On  your  dear-loved  breast! 
Reach  your  hand,  old  comrade,  I  am  going, 

With  my  long  discharge, 
Where  there'll  be  forever  rest  from  fighting, 

All   the  ranks  at  large. 

Take   the  sabre — for   my   chilling   fingers 

Feel  the  hilt  no  more; 
'Tis  a  memory  of  pain  and  struggle, 

May  its  reign  be  o'er; 
But  it  helped  the  righteous  cause  of  nations 

As  the  good   God   willed; 
And  I  trust  that  he  will  grant  us  pardon 

For   the  blood  it  spilled. 

When  you  lay  me  in   the   grave,  my  comrade, 

Under  yon  gray  oak  tree, 
Let  my  dear  and  faithful  old  companion 

Buried   be   with   me; 
'Tis  the  only  thing  that  I  have  left  me 

And  we  ne'er  shall  part; — 
Lay  it,  comrade,  in  the  coffin  with  me, 

Hilt  against  my  heart! 


LAMOND 

A  LIKELIER  lad  than  Lamond  was 
-*V  God  wot  was  never  seen  ; 
No  lither  foot  e'er  dashed  the  dew 
From  off  the  bracken  green. 

No  surer  hand   in   all  Argyle 

Drew  bow  or  wielded  brand; 
In  sport  or  hunt,  in  dance  or  song, 

The  first  in  all  the  land. 

'Twas  when  the  leaves  began  to  fall, 
With  youths  some  eight  or  nine, 

It  chanced  that  Lamond  chased   the  deer 
One  day  thru  far  Glenfine. 

Both   rough   and   toilsome  grew  the  way; 

His  friends  lagged   far  behind; 
Yet  Lamond  on  the  wounded  stag 

Pressed  faster  than  the  wind. 

When,   lo,    a  huntsman's  shrill   halloo 

Broke  on  his  startled  ear; 
Yet  dashed  he  forward  on  the  bent 

Without  one  care  or  fear. 

When  straight,  the  stag,  a  bow-shot  length, 

Fell    dead,    before   the  lad, 
And  lo,  a  hunting  band  drew  nigh 

Who  wore  Macgregor's  plaid. 
261 


262  LAMOND 

Out  stepped  Macgregor's  only  son, 

A  comely  boy  was  he, 
His  foot  he  planted  on  the  deer, 

Then  loud  and  bold  spake  he. 

"Come  you  as  friend  or  come  as  foe, 

'Tis   little    reck   to    me; 
But  come  you  here  to  claim  this  deer, 

Well  proved  your  claim  must  be." 

Right   forward   sprang  the   fearless   youth 
And  seized  the  branching  tyne; 

"Stand   back!"   he   cried,   "I    roused   this   deer 
This  morn  beyond  Glenfine! 

"Against  your  numbers  stands  my  right, 

With  this  I  urge  my  claim," 
And  from  its  sheath  his  good  claymore 

Leaped  forth  like  flash  of  flame. 

"Art  then  so  bold?"  Macgregor  cried, 

"Stand  back  my  clansmen  all, 
Whoe'er  shall  now  the  worthier  prove 

To  him  the  deer  shall  fall!" 

Right  short  and  desperate  was  the  strife 

The  fiery   youngsters   made; 
For  soon  his  foeman's  generous  blood 

Flowed  forth  on  Lamond's  blade. 

With  one  exulting  cry  the  youth 

Flung  up  his  sword  in  air, 
When  round  him  closed  Macgregor's  band 

Like  bloodhounds  round  a  bear. 


LAMOND  263 

But  striking  down  the  foremost  man 

He  cleft  the  ring  in  twain; 
As  starts  an  arrow  from  the  string 

He  fled  with  might  and  main. 

Yet  breathing  curses  dark  and  deep 

The  clansmen  throng  his  track; 
The  foot  of  no  Macgregor  yet 

For  deed  of  blood  was  slack. 

Thru   brake   and   wood,   o'er  cliff  and   hill, 

For  life  did  Lamond  strain, 
And  swift  as  swallow  now  he  skims 

Across  the  heath-clad  plain. 

When  straight  before  his  starting  eyes 

Macgregor's  fastness  rose; 
Now  sure  the  runner  seeks  his  fate! 

Exultant  yelled  his  foes. 

With  one  low  cry  and  headlong  bound 

He  burst  the  foremost  door, 
And,   lo,  what  chance  can  save  him   now, 

He  stands  the  chief  before! 

"Chieftain,   we   met,    'twas   mortal   strife, 

Your  son  was  slain  by  me; 
Take  now  my  life,   for  I  have  left 

No   strength   to   further   flee." 

Black   grew    Macgregor's   swarthy   brow, 

Forth  flashed  his   ready  dirk, 
As  with  an  ague,  all  his  frame 

Did  with  his  passion  work. 


264  LAMOND 

Thrice  fell  the  weapon  at  his  side, 

And  thrice  it  rose  in  air; 
Not  fiercer  on  the  hunter  glares 

A  wild-cat  from  its  lair. 

Close  drew  the  tramp  of  hurrying  feet, 

"Enough,"  he  sternly  said, 
"Though  vengeance  lives,  beneath  my  roof 

No  harm  shall  touch  your  head." 

Then  strode  he  quickly  to  the  door, 
"What  seek  ye,   clansmen,   here?" 

As  hounds  that  list  the  huntsman's  call, 
They   checked   their   fierce   career. 

"Death  to  the  murderer  of  your  son! 

Make  way,  my  chief,  make  way!" 
But  with  his  long  and  sinewy  arm 

He  made  their  boldest  stay. 

"Thou'rt  mad,  my  children,"  cried  the  chief, 

"Away  and  search  the  woodl 
A  hundred  kine  I  give  to  him 

Who  spills  the  murderer's  blood!" 

Like  famished  wolves  around  the  wold 
They  sought  the  vanished  prey; 

But  Lamond  'neath  the  chieftain's  roof 
Lay  safe  'till  close  of  day. 

Then  when  the  moon  her  lantern  hung 

Above  the  lonely  height, 
Two  silent  forms  moved  swiftly  forth 

Within  the  fold  of  night. 


LAMOND  265 

The  chieftain  strode  before,  the  youth 

Trod  light  the  fearsome  shade; 
E'er  as  the  wind-swept  foliage  stirred 

His  fingers  clutched  his  blade. 

Till  with  a  joyful  heart  he  viewed 

Once  more   the  treeless  land; 
Then  as  they  gained  the  midmost  heath 

The  chieftain  took  his  stand. 

His   face  showed   ghastly   pale,  his  voice 

Was  hoarse  with  hate  and  grief, 
And  his  proud,  stalwart  frame  was  shook 

As  is  an  aspen  leaf. 

"Stout  be  your  arm  and  true  your  sword" — 

(His  brow  grew  dark  and  wild), 
"When  in  the  open  next  I  meet 

The  slayer  of  my  child!" 

He  turned  and  pulled  his  bonnet  down; 

His  plaid  he  round  him  drew; 
Next  instant  and  the  beechwood  shade 

Concealed  his  form  from  view. 


Years  passed,  Macgregor  aged  apace; 

He  chased  the  deer  no  more; 
But  yet  in  memory  of  a  wrong 

He  wore  his  broad  claymore. 

Till  like  a  flood  in  harvest-time 
The  northern  clans  came  down; 

They  harried  all  the  country-side, 
And  burnt  both  hall  and  town. 


266  LAMOND 

The  aged  chief  was  forced  to  flee, 
And,  wandering  in  the  wild, 

All  sudden  in  his  path  he  met 
The  slayer  of  his  child.. 

But  Lamond  dropped   his  ready  blade, 

He  broke  in  sobbing  grief; 
"Long  have  I  mourned  my  hasty  deed, 

Forgive  me,  generous  chief! 

"Come  to  my  home,  I  do  repent 
What  my  rash  hand  hath  done. 

Be  thou  the  father  I  have  lost, 
And  I  will  be  thy  son!" 

He  clasped  the  old  man's  wasted  hands, 
He  kneeled  upon  the  heath; 

But   straight    Macgregor    backward    stept 
And  drew  his  sword  from  sheath. 

He   raised  his  arm — it   faltering  fell — 

Nor  yet  the  chieftain  spoke. 
His  form  was  shook  as  thrills  a  tree 

Beneath  the  woodsman's  stroke. 

His  cheek  grew  pale, — a  passion  tide 

Across  his  features  swept, — 
Then  sternness  melted  from  his  face, 

He  bowed  his  head   and  wept. 

He  flung  the  claymore  from  his  hand, 
"Brave  youth,"  he  broken  said, 

"Heaven  gives  me  back  my  son,  and  takes 
My  foe;  revenge  is  dead!" 


HELLO  yerself!     Well,  stranger, 
What's  news  with  you  down  East? 
Will  ye  have  a  bite?     A  hump  steak 

Isn't  very  much  of  a  feast 
But  ye're  welcome.     I  see  you've   ridden 

A  good  many  mile  to-day — 
Jest   take  off  yere  hoss's  bridle 
And  let  the  critter  stray. 

We  don't  get  much  news  on  the  prairie. 

The  'lection  is  over,  ye  say? 
The  Repubs  thrown  out?    Well,  dang  it, 

That  crowd  have  had  their  day. 
We've  been  scouts  here  on  the  frontier 

And  we've  drawed  Uncle  Samuel's  cash 
Nigh  thirty  year  and  mebby 

Seen  some  notions  go  to  smash. 

All  through  the  war  we  served,  sir; 

Fit  for  the  Union  then 
In  Custer's  Brigade, — for  a  fighter 

He  was  the  boss  o'  men! 
I  never  took  stock  in  niggers, 

But  'twas  fair  to  give  'em  a  show; 
Then  we  drifted  out  here  on  the  prairie 

Twenty-five  year  ago. 

267 


268  ON  THE  FRONTIER 

There  was  Injuns  all  about  us 

And  not  a  white  in  the  land; 
All  that  country  dotted  with  houses 

Was  clean  as  the  palm  o'  yer  hand; 
And  me  and  Hank,  my  chum  here, 

Many  a  night  we've  nassed 
Watch  and  watch  'ti     nornin', 

Thankful  our  scalps  held  fast. 

We  was  down  on  the  Platte  just  yonder 

Huntin'  some  buffalo, 
When  we  struck  a  pioneer's  wagon, 

Wife  and  baby  in  tow; 
They  was  young  and  towny  people, 

And  we  wondered  to  see  'em  there 
Away  on  the  lonesome  prairie, 

Out  of  Uncle  Samuel's  care. 

Well,  we  chinned  with  the  chap  and  his  woman 

And  we  found  'em  smooth  as  silk; 
They  hadn't  even  a  tan  on, 

As  white,  sir,   as  new  milk; 
And  Hank  and  me  it  stumped  us 

How  such  critters  got  out  here; 
Why  folks  like  them  should   rough  it 

It  'peared  outrageous  queer. 

But  that  young  chap  'dmired  his  wifey 

The  best  I  ever  seen; 
For  ye  see  she  was  slim  and  pooty 

And  ladylike  as  a  queen; 
And  delicate  and  sweet-natured 

As  a  blade  o'  young  spring  corn, 
With  an  eye  as  clear  and  pleasant 

As  a  mountain  pool  at  morn. 


ON  THE  FRONTIER  269 


And  the  dear  little  baby  girl,  sir, — 

Jest  about  two  year  old — 
Was  the  cunnin'est,  cutest  creter, 

With  its  hair  all  curly  gold. 
'Twas  a  toss  up  which  or  t'other 

Of  that  little  family  nest, 
The  chap  or  wife  or  baby, 

Loved  either  the  others  best. 

They  pitched  their  claim  just  yonder 

By  the  river's  wooded  bank, 
And  he  started  to  build  his  shanty 

With   the  grit  of  a  true-born  Yank; 
And   Hank  and  me  took  a  fancy 

To  the  chap  and  give  him  a  hand 
And  helped  him  raise  his  log-house 

And  root  up  his  patch  o'  land. 

But  no  sooner  they  got  to  livin' 

In  the  shebang  than  he  fell  sick; 
Worked   too  hard  for  a  green  hand 

And  the  fever  ketched  him  quick; 
But  we  hung  around  the  country 

And  helped  the  poor  little  wife; 
And  by  and  by  with  care,  sir, 

She  nursed  him  back  to  life. 

And,  be  jing,  if  they'd  had  millions 

They'd  a'  given  it  all  to  us; 
You'd  a'  thought  we  was  Kings  in  exile 

They  made  on  us  such  a  fuss; 
And  when  we'd  cross  the  country 

On  our  way  back  from  the  Fort 
We'd  stay  at  the  Yankee's  log-house 

With  his  mail  and  the  last  report. 


270  ON  THE  FRONTIER 

'Twos  just  a  year  from  their  comin', 

Hank  and  me  was  out  for  news 
On  the  trail  o'  some  restless  Injuns, 

Foxes,  Cheyennes,  and  Sioux, 
When  down  on  us  come  a-ridin' 

Like  mad,  barehead,  and  wild, 
That  Yank  chap  hollerin'  to  us, 

"My  wife — my  wife  and  child! 

"Good  God!"  he  yelled,  "the  Injuns! 

There — there — that  way's  the  track!" 
No    time   for   axin'   questions, 

We  turned  our  mustangs  back, 
And  the  style  we  streaked  that  prairie 

I  never  went  afore, 
Since  the  day  when  we  chased  Morgan 

In  Missouri  in  the  War. 

We  struck  the  trail  o'  their  ponies — 

Six  sets   o'  hoofs  they  were, — 
And  straight  to  west  they  pinted 

Like  a  line  drawn  through   the  air; 
We  chased   'em   down   to  dark,  sir, 

And  all  the  followin*  day, 
Till  we  saw   their  camp-smoke  curlin' 

Far  through  the  evenin'  grey. 

We  hitched  our  nags  to  some  bushes 

And  waited  for  day  to  pass ; 
Then   armed   with   our   guns  we   started 

To  crawl  through  the  prairie  grass; 
Till  eatin'   there  by  the  fire 

Was  six   Injuns  big  and  tall, 
And  the  Yank's  wife  was  sittin'  near  'em 

With  her  baby  wrapped  in  a  shawl. 


ON  THE  FRONTIER  271 

Jiggers!    it   raised   my   dander 

To   see   them   Injuns   feed, 
And  nary  a  bite  to  the  woman 

Though  she  looked  in  the  worst  o'  need; 
But  the  young  Yank's  face  was  a  pictur, 

And  his  two  eyes  flashed  like  flame, 
And  I  knowed  we  would  count  to  the  letter 

He  would  kill  or  die  there  game. 

We  each  one  singled  an  Injun 

And  let  go  like  one  man; 
We   dropped   three   dead,   and   the  others 

They  give  one  yelp  and  ran; 
And  next  moment,  tremblin',  faintin', 

But  safe  from  the  Injuns'  harms, 
The  wife  with  her  baby  tumbled 

Kerflop  in  the  young  chap's  arms. 

And  what  a  huggin'  and  kissin' 

Went  on  for  a  little  while! 
You'd   a'  hurd  them  smacks  he  give  her 

Well  on  to  half-a-mile. 
They  laughed  and  cried  like  time,  sir, 

And   Hank  he  blowed  his   nose, 
And  I  felt  all  kind  o'  crawly 

Way  down  to  the  ends  o'  me  toes. 

Well,   they'd   had    'bout   'nough   o'   the   frontier, 

Ye  can  bet  yer  dimes  on  that! 
They  moved  East,  but  we've  hurd  from  'em  often 

Out  here  on  the  river  Platte; 
And  that  chap  was  as  slick  a  feller 

As  I'll  ever  see  or  hear, 
For   many's  the  pound  o'  pigtail 

He  sent  us  these  twenty  year. 


272  ON  THE  FRONTIER 

And  if  ever  ye  come  acrost  him — 

Ye  may,  perhaps,  ye  see, — 
Jest  mention   we're  live   and   chipper, 

My  old  chum  here  and  me. 
Don't  I  know  ye?     Never  sized  ye 

Afore — did  you  ever,  Hank? 
Why,  bless  my  stars  and  garters — 

If  it  isn't  the  little  Yank! 


DEVON    AND    DRAKE 

HO,  Pelicans,  tip  the  flagon —  * 
Here's  to  Devon's  old  renown! 
May  we  have  such  ale  to  brag  on 

When  land  luck  has  run  us  down. 
Now  here,  and  to-morrow  the  ocean, 

To  follow  the  Spaniards'  wake 
And  to  breathe  a  life  of  motion 
In  the  Spanish  Main  with  Drake! 

Ay,  lads,  all  men  are  civil 

To  the  Kings  of  the  open  sea, 
For  we  fear  nor  saint  nor  devil 

And  we  spend  our  ducats  free. 
All  cheer  the  bold  freebooter, 

When  they  see  his  topsails  shake, 
For  silver  is  cheap  as  pewter 

In  the  Spanish  Main  with  Drake. 

Last  cruise  by  tempests  pounded 

We  scudded  the  nor'east  breeze, 
With  joyous  hearts  we  rounded 

Cape  Horn  to  the  southern  seas; 
We   upset  Sancho's  scheming, 

How  he  would  for  harbor  make 
When  he  saw  the  Red-Cross  streaming 

In  the  Spanish  Main  with  Drake! 

*  The  name  of  Drake's  vessel  was  the  "Pelican." 

273 


274  DEVON  AND  DRAKE 

We  made  short  work  of  the  slaver, 

He  gave  us  an   offing  wide; 
We  asked  of  man  no  favor, 

For   Heaven  was  on  our  side; 
Of  all  sea-rovers  the  vanward, 

We   threw  for  a  splendid  stake 
When  we  sailed   the   track   of   the   Spaniard 

In  the  Spanish   Main  with  Drake. 

We  scuttled  their  barques  and  traders, 

And  their  galleons  plundered  too; 
Like  heartiest  sea-crusaders 

On  the  monsoon's  wings  we  flew; 
From   Lima  to   Portobello 

We  kept  the  Dons  awake; 
A  hero  was  every  fellow 

In  the  Spanish  Main  with  Drake! 

We  ravaged  their  rich  plantations 

And  ransacked  their  convents'  gold; 
To  their  Popish  lamentations 

We  were  deaf,  like  Britons  bold; 
But  our  hearts  were  warm  and  human 

For  our  wives'  and  sweethearts'  sake, 
And  we  harmed  no  child  or  woman 

In  the  Spanish  Main  with  Drake. 

The  spawn  of  the  Inquisition, 

Who  had  wrought  through  two  worlds  harm, 
We  gave  a  high  commission — 

'Twas  the  end  of  our  long  yard-arm! 
We  flung  their  bones  to  the  raven 

And  the  shark,  for  acquaintance  sake, 
And  burned  their  blood-stained  haven 

In  the  Spanish  Main  with  Drake. 


DEVON  AND  DRAKE  275 

We  brought  an  Infanta's  dower 

A  present  to  good  Queen  Bess; 
Our  captain  won  fame  and  power 

And  was  knighted  for  our  success; 
We've    feasted    at   home   in    Devon 

On  the  best  they  brew  and  bake — 
But  here's  to  a  breezy  heaven 

In  the  Spanish  Main  with  Drake! 

Let  the  Jesuit  snarl  in  rancor — 

Let  him  loose  his  hounds  of  Spain; 
We  will  lift  with  Drake  the  anchor — 

We  will  spread  our  sails  again! 
Let  them  look  to  their  Lisbon  and  Cadiz 

As  we'll  down  their  sea-coasts  rake, 
St.  George's   God  to  aid  us 

In  the  Spanish  Main  with  Drake! 

The  Pope  may  send  forth  letters 

And  Philip  his  war  ships  too, 
But  our  limbs  for  Castile  fetters 

Are  too  stout  and  our  hearts  too  true! 
Let  them  flourish  and  make  bravada 

And  threaten  our  pride  to  break, 
But  we'll  stand  to  their  huge  Armada 

When  Devon's  afloat  with  Drake. 


MARY   JANE 

OF  all  the  maids  in  Brooklyn  City 
There's  none  to  match  my  Mary  Jane; 
She  is  so  pretty,  sweet,  and  witty 

She   fills  my   heart  with   loving   pain; 
Whene'er  I  see  her   in  the  arey 

A-polishing  a  window-pane, 
She  looks  just  like  a  story   fairy, 
My  dainty,  white-armed  Mary  Jane. 

She's  chamber-maid  at  number  seven, 

Her  master  is  an  overseer, 
And  I  sell  meat  at  number  'leven 

The  butcher-shop  of  Rufus  Grier, 
I  cuts  the  steaks  for  man  and  missus 

And  many  a  flattering  smile  I  gain; 
I  wish  them  smiles  were  turned  to  kisses 

And  came  to  me  with  Mary  Jane. 

When  she  goes  out  to  take  her  airing 

On  some  fine  Thursday  afternoon, 
Her  pretty  fixings  all  a-wearing, 

She's  fairer  than  the  silver  moon; 
There  is  no  lady  in  the  street  here 

That  sweeps  along  in  satin  train, 
Who's  rigged  more  stylish  and  complete! 

Than  sweet  and  lovely  Mary  Jane. 
276 


MARY  JANE  277 

I  took  her  to  a  ball  last  winter, 

'Twas  given  by  the  B.  P.  U's;* 
She  broke  the  fellers'  hearts  to  splinter 

A-tippin'  on  them  pinks  o'  shoes; 
Them  shoes — they'd  done  for  Cinderella! 

Her   dress  was  only  blue  delaine; 
But  blest  if  there  was  half  so  swell  a 

Miss  there  as  my  Mary  Jane. 

The  dearest  wish  I've  for  the  future, 

When  I  can  stock  me  up  in  beef, 
'S  t'  turn  an  independent  butcher 

And  Mary  Jane  make  Mrs.  Keefe; 
Though  storms  may  come  and  cloudy  weather, 

We'll  nothing  of  the  storms  complain; 
We  too  will  make  sunshine  together, 

Me  and  my  sweetheart,  Mary  Jane. 
*  Butchers'  Protective  Union. 


BLIND  MILTON 
(Loquitur) 

I   HAVE  lived  late  and  come  on  evil  days; 
Some  lewd-tongued  revellers  even  now  crost  my  door 
With  brawl  and  uproar  and  the  sottish  crew 
Jeered  as  they  passed  my  blindness;  were  it  not 
For  memory  of  what  this  land  has  been, 
What  it  has  borne  thru  suffering  for  the  truth, 
The  uncontaminate,  burning  hearts  that  mourn, 
Indignant,  pitying  her  uncrowned  state, 
Hope  with  me  had  departed  and  my  darkness 
Were  night  indeed;  but  that  pure  Spirit  Eterne, 
Whose  Voice  is  heard  in  silence,  and  whose  Word 
Is  full  of  the  promises  of  Him  whose  arm 
Upholds  the  heavens,  sustains  me. 

I  have  seen 

Frothing  the  measure  of  this  yeasty  time 
Rash,  licensed  spirits,  stuffed  with  vanity, 
Dregs  of  spume  faction  and  adulterous  birth, 
Pestilent,  rapacious,  unabashed, 
With  venal  function  and  blood-guilty  lust 
Fouling  high  place;  and  masquered,  mumbling  Faith 
With  greedy  palms  outstretched,  impious  in  prayer, 
With  fulsome  lips  agape — or  with  haught  brow 
Trampling  the  elect  of  God  beneath  her  feet, 
Bawd  to  the  subtle  harlot,  crowned  and  throned 
Upon  the  Seven  Hills;  her  pander,  State, 
Holding  his  swinish  revel,  satyr-eyed, 

278 


BLIND  MILTON  279 

Insensate,  swol'n  with  pride;  the  honored  seats 

Of  God-enfranchised  men  trafficked  and.  sold 

To  buy  the  smiles  of  wantons,  and  the  throne 

Of  the  great  Edwards,  Henries,  made  the  pawn 

Of  mockers,  rakes  and  masquers,  and  debased 

To  foreign  thralldom,  wrhile  a  courtesan 

Plays  Juno  to  the  giggot  rule  of  him, 

The  spawn  of  that  late  tyrant  who  betrayed 

Our  commonwealth,  and  would  have  broken  down 

Our  liberties,  had  not  the  Highest  raised 

Men  like  to  Joshua  and  Gideon  who 

Fired  the  indignant  hearts  of  humble  men 

To  rise  and  overthrow  him,  and  so  sealed 

The  charter  of  our  freedom  with  his  blood. 


How  has  our  greatness  fallen !  the  foul  block 
Dripping  with  blood  of  martyrs ;  the  honored  bones 
Of  those  whose  names  still  thunder  round  the  earth, 
Hurled  from  their  graves,  grappled  in  gibbet  irons, 
Bared  to  the  sneering  and  unholy  gaze 
Of  sycophants  and  mummers,  while  the  Dutch, 
Who  shrank  to  cover  when  our  trumpets  blew, 
Insult  us  in  our  shores,  and  the  French  court 
Lampoons  our  infamy,  and  the  Triple  Crown 
Recovers,  threatening  all  the  Saints  of  God, 
While  rufflers,  duelists  and  gamesters  crowd 
The  honored  of  our  land  into  their  graves. 


But  this  is  in  God's  hand ;  as  David  purged 

His  spirit,  so  this  land  will  cast  aside 

The  grave-clothes  of  her  sin,  and  rise  again 


280  BLIND  MILTON 

A  mightier  nation  than  this  world  has  seen, 
A  beacon  to  the  ages; 

I  foresee, 

In  that  fair  land  beyond  the  western  surge 
New  Hampdens,  Cromwells,  leading  forth  a  race 
English  in  speech  to  empire,  bearing  the  rampt 
Lion  of  English  valor  at  the  fore, 
And  spreading  witness  of  His  Holy  name 
Who  bends  the  heavens,  portents  comets  and  shakes 
The  stars  out  of  their  spheres;  rilling  the  void 
Of  virgin  forests,  leveling  the  hills, 
Bridging  the  mightiest  rivers,  making  bloom 
The  desert,  city  studded,  till  a  new 
England  of  mightier  presence  than  the  old 
Shall  rise  across  the  ocean,  queen-like,  fair 
As  Venus  Amphitrite,  with  throned  bows 
Majestic,  wreathed  with  vine-leaves  and  full  corn, 
Her  rippling  tresses  clustered ;  in  her  hand 
Sheep-hook  for  sceptre,  her  star-shimmered  robe, 
With  fragrant  cestus  girdled ;  in  her  eyes 
The  morning  of  the  young  Democracy, 
Whose  leaven  working  thru  the  world  unseen 
Shall  permeate  the  castes,  and  overthrow 
Privilege  and  the  pomp  and  power  of  kings ; 
Voicing  its  claim  within  Tradition's  halls, 
Echoing  with  din  of  war  and  prelate  strife 
And  footfalls  of  receding  centuries. 

Oh,  England,  oh,  my  mother,  in  that  time 

Bear  thyself  well!  for  'gainst  thy  strength  shall  crowd 

Envy,  distrust,  and  malice;  with  the  seed 

Of  Freedom  grow  the  tares  of  sensual  sloth 

And  self-sufficiency;  the  prosperous  years 

Enervate,  and  the  vigor  of  thy  arm 


BLIND    MILTON  281 

Which  steered  the  world  may  slacken ;  not  for  long, 
If  I  may  read  aright  the  pristine  worth 
Of  spirit  which  endures,  and  greatly  tried 
Shines  forth  the  brighter  for  the  stormy  wrack, 
Leaving  thee  still  serene,  the  pride  of  earth, 
The  patron  heir  of  time; — 

Prithee  lead  in; 

The  night  grows  chill,  and  wide  invisible  wings 
Of  contemplation  tent  above  my  thought 
Calmed  from  the  outer  world.      My  heart  is  stirred 
Strangely,  and  on  my  lifted  spirit  grows 
The  theme  of  that  great  argument  I  told 
Thee  yester-night  of.     I  give  thanks  to  him 
Who  while  He  took  the  sense  of  sight  hath  left 
The  inner  vision,  spared  the  varied  lore 
I  drew  in  youth  from  many  a  storied  fount 
Of  ancient  inspiration;  calmed  my  soul 
That  I  unmoved  within  this  evil  time 
May  trust  His  promise  for  that  ampler  day. 


DEFENCE    OF   THE    LONG    SAUT 

[The  defence  of  the  Long  Saut,  as  told  in  the  pages  of  Park- 
man,  is  one  of  the  most  spirited  episodes  in  the  history  of  New 
France.  For  thirteen  days  the  Sieur  Dollard  of  Doulac,  with  six- 
teen devoted  companions  of  the  garrison  of  Montreal  and  five 
Algonquin  braves,  defended  the  renowned  Pass  against  the  whole 
armed  power  of  the  Iroquois  Nation,  and  though  all  were  even- 
tually slain,  their  defence  so  disheartened  the  savages  that  they 
gave  up  all  hope  of  driving  the  French  from  Canada.] 

THE  Iroquois  with  wasting  torch  and  cruel  butchering 
hand, 
East,  West  and  North  resistless  sweep  across  New  France's 

land ; 
Along  Ontario's  northern  shore  they  range  with  none  to 

check, 

And  muster  bands  around  Champlain  to  threat  the  young 
Quebec. 

Each  hour  some  hut  or  hamlet  flames — the  foe  strike  every- 
where ; 

The  lumberer  in  the  woods  is  slain  while  swings  his  axe  in 
air. 

From  every  savage  girdle  hangs  some  pledge  of  ghastly 
strife, 

Torn  reeking  from  the  quivering  flesh  beneath  the  scalping 
knife. 

Now,  who  would  live  out  length  of  days  nor  court  a  tor- 
tured death, 

Must  hasten  to  the  palisades  by  stealth  with  bated  breath; 

282 


DEFENCE  OF  THE  LONG  SAUT          283 

The  venturous  couriers  du  bois  all  still  and  watchful  go; 
The  winter  wild  cats  are  less  fierce  than  this  blood-famished 
foe. 

The  Hurons  from  their  villages  like  deer  are  hunted  forth, 
And  hide  within  the  trackless  wilds  that  fringe  the  frozen 

North  ; 

The  Melicites  to  Tadousac  the  awesome  tidings  tell, 
Where  every  shrieking  blast  forebodes  the  Mohawk's  mur- 
der yell. 

But  to  the  fort  at  Montreal  have  crossed  the  champing  sea, 
From  Mother  France  a  chosen  band  of  youthful  chivalry; 
And  he,  the  proud  young  commandant  with  high-born,  peer- 
less port, 
Is  Dollard,  Sieur  of  old  Doulac,  the  star  of  Louis'  Court. 

'Tis  Dollard  speaks  to  Maisonneuve,  the  governor  of  New 
France, 

While  flashes  round  the  council  hall  his  proud  and  burning 
glance, 

''Had  I  one  score  of  willing  hearts  to  hold  the  narrow  Saut, 

These  prowling  wolves  of  Iroquois  would  soon  their  mas- 
ters know. 

"Now,  who  will  dare  to  stake  his  life  upon  a   desperate 

chance  ? 
Who'll  earn  with  me  a  deathless  name — who'll  win  renown 

for  France? 

Or  will  ye  slink  and  cower  still  within  your  fortress  wall, 
While  on  your  desolated  fields  in  flames  your  roof-trees  fall  ? 

"What,  would  ye  send  the  tidings  home  that  by  a  savage  foe 
The  royal  Lilies  are  besmirched  and  torn  and  trampled  low; 


284          DEFENCE  OF  THE  LONG  SAUT 

The  stock  of  Bayard  and  Navarre,  of  Conde  and  Dunois, 
Quail  like  a  pack  of  well-whipped  hounds  before  these  Iro- 
quois ! 

"Speak,  fellow-soldiers,  comrades,  friends — who  now  will 
go  with  me 

To  drive  the  painted  devils  hence,  come  death  or  victory? 

In  name  of  King  and  Christ's  dear  faith,  let  whoso  will  ad- 
vance, 

And  draw  his  blade  to  strike  for  fame,  for  Dollard,  and  for 
France." 

An  instant's  pause — then  sixteen  youths  spring  forth  with 

martial  glee; 
Out  flash  their  swords,  at  once  they  cry,  "To  death  we'll 

follow  thee!" 
They  snatch  the  gun  and  corselet  down,  they  seize  the  pike 

and  lance, 
Then  throng  the  shore  their  muster  cheer,  "For  Dollard 

and  for  France!" 

Forth  leap  the  light  canoes — they  breast  St.  Lawrence  swift 

and  wide, 

To  where  the  stately  Ottawa  rolls  down  her  wine  dark  tide ; 
Yet  still  they  stem  the  rushing  stream,  their  paddles  sweep 

the  flow, 
Until  they  win  the  rugged  rocks  that  hem  the  famed  Long 

Saut. 

They  land  within  the  pass's  jaws — their  lonely  camp  is  made 

Beside  the  bastion's  rough-hewn  wall,  a  loop-holed  palisade; 

There,  lined  along  the  swarthy  cliffs  that  bind  the  frothing 
sea, 

This  band  of  New  World  Spartans  hold  their  new  Ther- 
mopylae. 


DEFENCE  OF  THE  LONG  SAUT          285 

"Ho,  yon  canoes  hold  surely  friends!     'Tis  they  our  red 

allies!" 
Right  joyous  ring  the  welcome  shouts  that  round  the  camp 

fires  rise. 

"Annahotaha,  fighting  chief,  with  forty  Huron  braves — 
Now  come,  you  cursed  Iroquois — come  now  and  find  your 

graves ! 

"Ay,  here  stands  France !"    As  hunters  watch  the  mountain 

streams  for  game, 
They  scan  the  rock-strewn,  foaming  pass,  athirst  for  war 

and  fame; 
Yet,  true  Crusaders,  night  and  morn  to  Christ  they  bend  the 

knee 
Beneath  the  oriflamme  of  God,  the  peerless  Fleur-de-Lis. 

"Arm!  arm! — they  come!  now  strike  for  France!  the  foe 

are  fair  in  view; 
The    Iroquois,    a    thousand    strong,    shooting    the    rapids 

through !" 

Hurrah!  the  muskets  volley  death!  a  thousand  yells  reply; 
A  leap — a  splash — three  first  canoes  upturned  go  drifting  by ! 

"Vive,  vive  La  France!"  the  paddles  swerve — the  redskins 

leap  to  land; 
Their  scalp-locks  tossing  in  the  wind,  their  tomahawks  in 

hand ; 
Like  wolves   around   a   lone   battue   to   shore  the   Oneidas 

crowd  ; 
They  come,  the  bloodhounds  of  the  Lakes,  the  Mohawks 

fierce  and  proud. 

In  plumed  and  painted  panoply  the  glade  the  warriors 
throng ; 

Each  scalping-knife  hangs  glittering  keen  within  its  deer- 
skin thong; 


286          DEFENCE  OF  THE  LONG  SAUT 

Beside  each  quiver  sheathed  with  quills  a  hickory  bow  is 

borne, 
And  round  each  waist  the  wampum  belt  with  leathern  fringe 

is  worn. 

They  rush — in  vain!  the  dauntless  band  repel  the  fierce  at- 
tack, 

And  many  an  eagle  plume  goes  down  in  dust  and  bloody 
wrack ; 

While  storms  from  out  the  palisade  to  greet  each  fresh 
advance 

The  Frenchman's  stern  defiant  cheer,  "For  Dollard  and 
for  France!" 

Five  days  of  stealthy,  bold  assault  the  stubborn  French  have 
stood, 

'Til  all  the  trampled  sward  is  now  besmirched  with  savage 
blood ; 

No  sleep  by  night,  no  peace  by  day,  the  worn-out  band 
have  won, 

For  hourly  rings  the  piercing  whoop  and  cracks  the  an- 
swering gun. 

Five  days!  the  Hurons,  man  by  man,  desert  the  leaguered 
walls ; 

Their  haughty  chief  alone  remains,  for  naught  his  soul 
appals ; 

With  only  four  Algonquin  braves,  who  to  him  constant 
stand, 

He  fights  beside  the  roaring  Saut  for  France  and  Father- 
land! 

But  yet,  high  o'er  the  closing  din — the  yell  and  crackling 
round, 

Bursts  forth  the  war-cry  of  the  French  with  hoarse,  de- 
fiant sound; 


DEFENCE  OF  THE  LONG  SAUT          287 

And  still  the  Lilies  flaunt  the  sky — still,  as  the  foe  advance 
The   muskets   rattle   to   the  cheer,   "For   Dollard   and   for 
France!" 

Eight  long  days  more!  and  yet  around  the  fire-scathed  pali- 
sade, 

The  baffled,  vengeful  redmen  throng  the  encircling  forest- 
shade  ; 

Eight  hundred  more  of  Iroquois  adown  the  Richelieu 
sweep ; 

Now,  gallants,  look  your  last  on  earth — now  must  your  loved 
ones  weep ! 

Pile   high    the    blazing    birch    canoes    against    the    timbers 

brown — 
Make  one  more  rush,  you  Iroquois,  for  half  your  foes  are 

down ! 
While  sore  with  wounds  and  spent  with  toil,  and  dazed  for 

want  of  sleep, 
How  worn  the  few  survivors  now  who  still  the  barriers 

keep! 

Oh,  Blessed  Mary!  but  how  weak  has  grown  their  stalwart 

cheer, 
As  round  that  slope  of  blazing  logs  the  boldest  foes  draw 

near; 
But  far  above  the  strife  of   death  the  banner  streams  on 

high, 
And  while  it  waves,  you   Iroquois,   some   Frenchman  lives 

to  die! 

Ay,   by  the  Rood!   as  'tween  the  logs  the  Mohawks  rend 

their  way, 
There  stand  that  stubborn  handful  yet,  like  hunted  stags, 

at  bay; 


288          DEFENCE  OF  THE  LONG  SAUT 

"One  cheer,  my  lads — La  Nouvelle  France!  one  cheer  for 

Ville  Marie! 
Then  die  like   Frenchmen   to   the  last,    for  die  you  must 

with  me!" 

'Tis  Bollard's  voice — he  dashes  forth — he  hurls  a  hand- 
grenade  ; 

Too  weak — too  weak  the  cast — it  bursts  within  the  pali- 
sade! 

Ah,  God!  it  scatters  ruin  and  death!  midst  blinding  flash 
and  roar, 

Fast  through  the  charred  and  gaping  wall  the  furious  red- 
skins pour. 

Stand  stoutly  still,  you  desperate  few,  God's  rest  is  large 

for  all; 
Now  close  with  pistol,   pike  and  sword,   and   round  your 

Lilies  fall! 
Spent,  wounded,  hopeless,  overborne,  front  still  the  swarthy 

ring 
Where  thirsty  knives  and   tomahawks   a  thousand   foemen 


swing 


Ay,  staunchly  round  your  banner  close! — all  sternly  back 

to  back, 
They  meet  with  sword  the  tomahawk,  the  knife  with  pistol 

crack ; 
Still  o'er  the  black  and  blinding  smoke  the  pale  blue  Lilies 

dance, 
While  fainter,  hoarser  grows  the  cheer,  "For  Dollard  and 

for  France!" 

And  still  the  tufted  braves  go  down,  as  falls  the  plumed 

maize 
Beneath  the  sturdy   peasant's  scythe   across   the   furrowed 

ways; 


DEFENCE  OF  THE  LONG  SAUT          289 

'Til  maddened  at  their  frightful  loss,  the  whooping,  crowd- 
ing foe 

One  close  and  deadly  volley  pour  and  lay  the  Frenchmen 
low. 

No — one  stands  yet — the  sword-hilt  dropped  from  out  his 

nerveless  hand; 
'Tis   Dollard,   of   the   snow-white   plume,   bold   brow   and 

lightning  brand ; 
He   leans    against    the    banner-staff,    he    lifts    a    last    fond 

glance — 
Then   falls  with  one  death-throttled  shout,   "For  Dollard 

and  for  France!" 

And  o'er  that  smoking  holocaust  the  peace  of  God  comes 
down  ; 

But  why  is  raised  no  victor  shout? — why  spreads  that  sullen 
frown  ? 

Lo!  heaped  within  yon  blackened  pyre,  and  strewed  the  san- 
guine plain, 

The  whole  Six  Nations  view  dismayed  their  best  and  bravest 
slain ! 

This  night,  ye  nuns  of  Montreal,  resume  your  ways  of  peace, 

And  you,  ye  watchers  at  Quebec,  take  now  from  fear  re- 
lease ; 

For  ne'er  was  ampler,  prouder  deed,  since  Clovis  lifted 
lance, 

Than  that  which  hath  been  wrought  to-day  by  these  few 
sons  of  France! 

And  pause  in  time,  you  Iroquois,  and  count  your  hundreds 

slain, 
Ere  you  in  closing  strife  would  cross  the  Frenchmen's  path 

again ; 


290          DEFENCE  OF  THE  LONG  SAUT 

How  many,  think  ye,  of  your  braves,  will  hunt  the  fields  of 
blue, 

If  every  soldier  of  New  France  dies  like  these  twenty- 
two? 


GORING'S    RIDE 

ONE  bumper,  our  sweethearts!  then  up  and  away! 
For  there's  hot  work  to  do  ere  the  close  of  the  day; 
The  train-bands  of  Essex  are  out  in  full  force, 
And  Cromwell's  black  troopers  are  mustered  to  horse. 
All  round, — the  King's  health!   for  morn's  breaking  light, 
Now  up,  boot  and  saddle!  away  for  the  fight! 

What's  here?    A  despatch!  the  North's  up  in  arms! 
They  swarm  out  like  bees  at  the  sound  of  alarms! 
Rupert's  over  the  Humber  like  hawk  on  the  wing, 
And  Lunsford  and  Astley  have  joined  with  the  King; 
Each  turnpike  from  Scotland  to  stout  Oxford  town 
Is  clatt'ring  to  horse-hoofs  fast  galloping  down! 

Unfurl  the  old  flag!    It  has  flown  for  the  Right 
At  Edge  Hill,  and  many  a  tough,  bloody  fight; 
Who'd  exchange  its  old  tears  and  its  dingy  blood-stains 
For  the  gayest  new  silk  the  King's  army  retains! 
And   though  tarnished  its  lustre  still  proudly  it  waves 
As  we  dash  sword  in  hand  at  the  psalm-singing  knaves! 

Open  line,  you  in  front!  thrust  a  torch  in  yon  pane! 
Give  the  churl  a  house-warming  in  high  Spanish  vein! 
Let  the  jade  go,  you  sirs!     Close  up  the  rear  ranks! 
You  Roger  and  William — out  on  the  flanks! 
Noll's  pets  are  abroad — it  were  best  to  take  care 
Or  we'll  stumble  full  tilt  on  their  pikes  unaware. 

Eustace,  ride  on  ahead!  we  are  nearing  the  plain; 
Keep  a  sharp  look  around!  gag  that  ribald  refrain! 

291 


292  COKING'S  RIDE 

Look  to  primings,  my  men !  pass  the  word  through  the  troop ! 
And  see  that  each  carbine  hangs  right  of  the  croup 
The  churls  if  we're  careless  may  play  us  a  trick, 
And  they'll  follow  Noll's  nose  as  the  fiends  follow  Nick. 

Boy,  whom  see  you  there?  by  St.  Denis  of  France 

The  sight  of  a  Roundhead's  like  prick  of  a  lance! 

What  make  you  their  colors?  you  rogue,  look  again! 

Pray  God  it  be  Ludlow's  or  Ireton's  men! 

Left   wheel!      Line   advance!      Steady!     Give  your   nags 

breath, — 
These  foxes  don't  run  that  we  hunt  to  the  death. 

Now  fellow,  your  trumpet!  a  good  rousing  blast! 
Pikes  to  front!    Ready?    DRAW!    We  have  them  at  last! 
Three  cheers — for  the  Church !  for  the  King !  for  the  Cause ! 
Now  down  with  all  traitors,  and  up  with  the  laws! 
No  quarter,  my  lads !    Cleave  the  Knaves  to  the  gorge ! 
Charge,  Cavaliers,  CHARGE!    Now  for  God  and  St.  George! 


LADY   MAUD 

WAKE,  Lady  Maud!  the  stars  grow  dim,  the  morn  in 
heaven  is  high, 

And  I  beneath  thy  lattice  wait,  sweetheart,  to  bid  good-bye ; 
My  carbine's  slung  my  baldric  fro',  at  side  my  sword  is 

pressed, 
Thy  scarf  doth  deck  my  saddle  bow,  thy  glove  swings  on  my 

crest. 
Wake,   maiden,   wake!    the   day-god's  shafts  o'er-slant   the 

upland  sod, 
While  I   beneath  thy  lattice  wait,  my  dream-bound  Lady 

Maud. 

Wake,  mistress  mine!  the  time  grows  short,  I  must  with 

speed  away, 

For  Rupert's  reckless  cavaliers  will  brook  no  long  delay; 
The  clarion  call  rings  shrilly  out,  the  silken  flag  floats  free, 
I  hear  the  tramp  and  muster  shout,  the  brandished  swords 

I  see; 
My  champing  charger  paws  the  ground,  he  scents  the  war 

abroad, 
Yet  I  beneath  thy  lattice  wait,  my  fair-haired  Lady  Maud. 

Wake,  lady,  wake!  this  well  may  be  thy  gallant's  last  fare- 
well, 

For  o'er  the  stiff-necked  Commons'  arms  doth  Victory  clang 
her  bell; 

From  point  to  hilt  my  burnished  blade  deep  red  shall  soon 
be  dyed, 

293 


294  LADY  MAUD 

For  Rupert  oath  this  day  has  made  to  humble  Cromwell's 

pride. 
He  vows  the  crop-eared,  canting  rout  shall  kiss  this  day  the 

rod; 
Rise,  rise!  and  look  thy  lattice  forth,  my  bright-faced  Lady 

Maud! 

Up,  up!  my  fair  one, — 'tis  no  time  to  dream  of  song  and 

dance, 
Thy  lover  now  must  stride  a  horse,  and  handle  sword  and 

lance ; 

Nor  now  in  sport  thy  sandal  fan  thy  doting  gallant  strikes, 
He  seeks  the  sword-play  in  the  van,  he  braves  the  rush  of 

pikes ; 
Ope,  dear  one !  ope  those  eyes  of  blue  that  all  the  world  doth 

laud, 
And  shine  two  victories  down  the  morn,  my  peerless  Lady 

Maud! 

Our  standard  floats  on  Naseby  heath  wide  o'er  the  king's 
array, 

And  I  and  every  loyal  blade  must  meet  him  there  this  day, 

And  by  Saint  George!  will  they  and  I  now  ride  the  victor's 
course, 

Or,  piled  a  rampart  round  him  lie,  o'erthrown  by  Crom- 
well's horse. 

One  kiss — the  last!  and  then  farewell,  and  put  thy  trust  in 
God, 

If  ne'er  on  earth,  we'll  meet  in  Heaven,  sweetheart,  my 
Lady  Maud! 


SONNETS 


FOREWORD 

SONNET,  Child  of  Petrarch  and  the  Lyric  Muse,  thou  wert  born 
in  the  days  of  Chivalry  and  Romance,  and  all  thy  earlier  youth 
was  touched  by  love.  Angelo,  the  Immortal,  found  for  thee  a 
deeper  note,  and  the  magnificent  Lorenzo  gave  thee  added  grace. 
Next,  Surrey  and  Wyatt,  twins  of  English  rhyme,  rescued  thee 
from  the  neglect  of  Fame,  and  nourished  thee  on  English  ground. 
"The  gentle  Spenser  loved  thee,"  and  the  high-born  Sidney  was 
thy  servitor. 

But  thy  crowning  glory  was  to  be  the  guest  of  Shakespeare,  the 
Prince  of  Song.  He  took  from  thee  thy  Italian  mantle  and  decked 
thee  in  his  own  royal  robes.  No  man  shall  henceforth  do  thee 
ampler  honor.  Under  the  hand  of  the  mighty  Milton  thou  ob- 
tained an  organ  tone — thy  note  of  Reverence  and  Prayer.  But 
the  degenerate  children  of  English  Song  abjured  thee  or  gave  but 
grudging  habitation,  until  Wordsworth,  Priest  of  Nature,  ushered 
thee  into  his  calm  and  stately  cloisters.  There  thy  plastic  soul 
took  on  fresh  harmonies  and  delights;  new  aspirations,  fair  hopes, 
sweet  consolations  and  confidings.  In  thy  turn  thou  becamest  a 
teacher  of  men;  and  henceforth  thou  must  remain  the  favored  heir 
of  the  English  Muse. 

It  behooves  not  to  tell  of  all  the  illustrious  masters  who  have 
taken  thee  to  their  hearts.  The  Old  World  still  loves  thy  ordered 
walk,  and  the  New  has  opened  wide  its  doors  and  enriched  thee. 
To  each  hast  thou  spoken  in  a  different  key,  for  thy  nature  is 
variant  as  the  flowers  of  mountain  and  field,  of  garden  and  forest. 
Thee,  dwelling  in  the  strict  bonds  of  rhyme,  I  love  best  of  all  the 
Children  of  Song,  for,  if  thou  demandest  much,  thy  favors  are 
bountiful  to  them  who  worthily  seek  thee. 

But  for  them  not  of  the  true  Brotherhood,  wilt  thou  dig  a  pit- 
fall and  cover  the  pretender  and  the  careless  wooer  with  shame. 
Therefore,  O  Sonnet,  may  my  feet  tread  reverently  in  thy  service, 
and  in  the  name  of  these  Masters  be  all  this  my  cherishing  of 
thee — so  shalt  thou  obtain  the  larger  honor  and  I  perchance  a 
favor  more  sweet.  For  my  offering  I  bespeak  the  good-will  of  all 
true  votaries  of  the  Muse,  and  of  all  others  who  worship  and  love 
her  but  have  been  holden  from  bringing  gifts  to  her  shrine.  In 
their  hands  I  leave  thee,  beloved  Sonnet,  my  companion  and  the 
solace  of  my  heart! 

C.  L.  B. 


OUT  OF  THE  DARKNESS 


I   HAVE  seen  Freedom  nailed  upon  the  cross; 
I  have  seen  Truth  outraged,  and  in  that  lie 
A  nation  damned,  another  nation  die ; 
A  world  at  strife,  stricken  with  bitter  loss. 
Faith's  counters  in  a  game  of  pitch  and  toss, 
And  ruthless  Rapine  with  her  hue  and  cry 
Urging  the  dogs  of  war,  whose  victims  lie 
Strewing  the  scarp  and  heaping  high  the  fosse. 

And  with  a  deep  despair  for  this  fair  world 
I  gazed  upon  the  blood-reek  and  the  smoke, 
Till  from  my  lips  a  quivering  protest  broke 

At  all  that  waste  of  fair  things,  broken  and  hurled 
Into  the  jaws  of  Moloch,  and  the  tears 
Not  to  be  stanched  or  wiped  away  in  years. 


ii 


Yet  midst  that  ruin  and  carnage  I  have  seen 
Honor,  a  falcon,  rise  and  breast  the  gale; 
And  Fortitude  expand  her  daring  sail; 

And  Love,  the  evangel,  gliding  in  between 

The  serried  ranks;  and  Charity,  in  sheen 
Of  service  white,  bidding  the  wounded  hail, 
Clutching  the  hands  of  women,  driven  and  pale, 

And  children,  fearful-eyed,  unmirthed  and  lean. 

297 


298  SONNETS 

And  out  of  all  this  hell, — this  furnace  flame 
Of  warring  nations, — I  have  marked  thee  rise, 

My  Mother  England,  girt  in  shining  mail, 
Thy  Spenser's  armed  queen,   and  in  the  name 
Of  thy  great  past  look  in  the  demon  eyes 

Of  Hate  and  make  the  dreadful  Gorgon  quail. 


ill 


'Twas  his  design, — queen  Mother  of  five  free 

And  stalwart  nations ;  from  whose  loins  have  sprung 
Sons  of  proud  pith,  by  mightiest  minstrels  sung; 

Thee  to  whom  Earth  brings  tribute,  and  the  Sea 

Fences  with  thy  Viking  liberty, — 

It  was  his  hope,  the  overweening  Teuton,  stung 
With  envy — plunderer  since  his  horde  was  young — 

To  rape  the  Hesperian  apples  from  thy  tree. 

Thou  island  Britomart,  thy  courage  swells, 

Thy  prowess  strengthens  as  the  test  draws  near. 

Upon  thy  breast  the  cross  of  service  dwells; 
What  foe  can  make  my  Mother  England  fear? 

Not  he,  the  Outlaw,  with  his  leash  of  hells; 
With  murder  in  his  heart  and  on  his  spear. 


SONNETS  299 

BRITAIN    AND    HER    COLONIES 

THRONED  on  the  sunset  marge  of  the  oM  world, 

She  sits  in  state,  by  all  the  new  surveyed; 

The  broad  Atlantic  at  her  feet  is  laid, 
O'er  which  she  hath  so  oft  her  thunders  hurled. 
O'er  continents  of  virgin  land  unfurled, 

Far  floats  the  Red  Cross  of  her  new  crusade, 

The  genius  of  her  language,  law  and  trade, 
Supreme  where'er  an  ocean  wave  is  curled! 
She  reigns  not  conqueror  only !  o'er  the  main 

Speed  forth  her  milder  servitors  of  renown, 
Law,  Justice,    Freedom,    and   Commercial   Faith; — 

Unlike  the  misruled,  aliened  wards  of  Spain, 
Her  proud  young  statelings,  all  untouched  by  scathe, 

Are  bound  through  love  to  her  redoubted  crown! 


ENGLAND   AND   THE   ARMADA 

A  CRESCENT  moon  in  mists  of  steel-gray  hue 

Presaging  dire  disaster,  o'er  the  main 

Rode  the  impending  puissance  of  Spain, 
The  Invincible  Armada!     Rumor  flew 
With  thousand  tongues  before  it;  awestruck  drew 

Their  breaths  the  bodeful  nations;  "England,  vain," 

They  cried,  "to  face  proud  Parma's  hand  of  bane; 
Behold    Sidonia's    squadrons   on    the    blue!" 

Rash  doubters !  throned  upon  her  island  steep 
She  raised  her  dreadful  trident;  round  her  swarmed 

Her  sea-dogs — marked  their  quarry;  o'er  the  deep 
Her  warlike  trumpet  pealed,  her  shout  upstormed — 

"A  Drake!  a  Raleigh!"  where  the  blue  waves  sweep 
Round  all  her  shores  her  dauntless  spirit  warmed! 


300  SONNETS 

BELGIUM 

THE  mandat&of  a  haughty  empire  rang, 

"Be  them  my  roadway !"     To  the  o'erweening  foe 

Belgium  from  all  her  ramparts  thundered,  "No!" 
And  soon  across  her  fields  the  bullets  sang. 
On  your  devotion,  Liege,  the  issues  hang 
Of  Europe's  fate!  before  your  walls  are  low 
Forth  to  the  front  the  Gallic  legions  flow, 
And  England  rouses  to  your  cannon's  clang. 

Small  among  nations, — stout  and  high  of  heart; 

Nor  last  upon  the  honored  scroll  of  fame. 
Even  Caesar  feared  your  prowess;  Charles  the  Bold 
Respected  you  alone;  the  Spaniards'  art 

And  arms  were  shriveled  on  your  battle  flame, 
And  still  your  ancient  war-shield   you   uphold. 

JAPAN 

THE  war  clouds  lower,  are  riven — and  high  in  air 
Burns  the  far  portent  of  the  Rising  Sun; 
Late  promise  of  an  empire  long  begun, 

Japan,  whom  Fate  hath  pledged,  Japan  the  Fair! 

The  lotus  wreath  still  clinging  to  her  hair, 
Yet   in  her  hand   the  sword  and   smoking  gun, 
While  from  her  feet  the  western  wolves  have  run, 

And  from  his  prey  crawls  off  the  crippled  Bear. 

The  Orient  queen,  flower-robed  and  crowned  with  arts- 
Nippon,    the   nurse   of   chivalry   and    dreams, 

Yet   dread   in   battle.      From  his   roadstead   starts 
Togo  the  Watcher,  while  his  banner  streams 

Defiance.     When  those  thunders  die  away 

Where  are  his  foes?    Answer,  ye  waves  at  play! 


SONNETS  301 

MONTENEGRO 

THE  thunders  of  five  stormy  centuries  broke 
Full  on  thy  mountain!     Frank  and  Ottomite 
Brested  in  vain  that  black,  redoubted  height; 

Vainly  they  strove  to  bend  thee  to  their  yoke. 

Down  those  ravines,  steaming  with  musket  smoke, 
Thy  cliff-reared  heroes  drove  their  hosts  in  flight, 
While  that  stern  Amurath,  the  Christian's  blight, 

Fled  headlong  from   their  swift  avenging  stroke. 

Still,  Tsernagora,  stand  and  front  the  world 

As  when,  wide-rolled,  the  Moslem  breakers  swept 
Around  thy  rock  of  refuge; — Freedom  there 
Still  keeps  her  ancient  Slavic  flag  unfurled — 

Thy  deeds  unfold  thy  passion;  still  are  kept 
Faith  unto  death  and  hearts  that  all  things  dare. 

SWITZERLAND 

AMIDST  the  sharp-clawed  European  kites, 

Eager  to  flesh  their  ruthless  beaks  with  prey, 
And  watchful  where  to  strike  and  when  to  slay, 

This  brood  of  falcons,  nested  on  the  heights, 

Nursed   their  staunch  wings  of  freedom;  days  and  nights 
For  centuries  they  faced  their  foes — yes,  they 
Have  held  their  cloud-wrapped  eyrie  to  this  day, 

Inviolate,  bounded  by  their  ancient  rights. 

The  homes  of  Switzers!  built  too  firm  and  free 
And  near  to  Heaven  to  brook  the  rule  of  kings, 

Though  kings  were  emperors;  let  the  invader  be 
Howe'er  so  mighty,  forth  to  oppose  him  springs 

The  hardy  patriot,  and  each  rock  and  tree 
Becomes  an  altar  whereto  Freedom  clings! 


302  SONNETS 

HOLLAND 

RESCUED,  half-drowned,  from  surly  Neptune's  hold, 
Whose  white-maned  steeds,  still  foiled,  incessant  leap 
Athwart  the  bulwarks  of  thy  sunken  keep, — 

With  smouldering  hearts,  although  thy  skies  be  cold; 

Mother  of  crafts,  with  trading  manifold, 
Yet  dread  to  war  with  as  in  Caesar's  day, — 
Holland,  no  grind  of  traffic  scours  away 

The  gravings  of  thy  struggle  stern  and  bold. 

For   those  are  records,   wrought  within   thy  soul, — 
Freedom's  eternal  dower!     The  Spaniard  saw 
Thee,  waif  of  nations,  to  thy  succor  draw 

The  foe  that  wasted  thee  yet  kept  thee  free; 

Than  brook  his  rule  above  thy  homes  might  roll 

The  desolating  chariots  of  the  sea! 


A   WARNING   TO   THE   KAISER 

AY,  nurse  thy  pride  and  vaunt  thee  of  thy  state, 
O  purple-robed  Belshazzar!  pour  the  wine 
And  pledge  thy  fortune !  let  the  cressets  shine ! 

Behold  thy  walls  and  watchmen  mock  at  fate! 

Do  not  thy  guards  in  proof  around  thee  wait? 
Where,  coward,  fails  thy  majesty  divine? 
What!  thy  soothsayers  cannot  read  the  sign? 

Thou'rt  wanting — lo,  the  Mede  is  at  thy  gate! 

Freedom,  for  every  pang  thy  votaries  feel 
Thy  retribution  grows !  thy  way  is  long 

And  thou  far  patient,  but  thy  hand  of  steel 
When  once  'tis  closed  about  the  throat  of  wrong 
No  power  can  loosen; — Tyranny  is  strong, 

But  thou  wilt  break  him  on  his  own  red  wheel! 


SONNETS  303 

THE    LIGHTED    LIBERTY 

(Viewed  from  Brooklyn  Bridge) 

ABOVE  the  glow-worm  glimmering  of  the  town, 

Beneath  Heaven's  dusky  vault  all  spangled  wide, 

The  spider-latticed  cables  curve  beside 
The  spectral  pillars  to  the  Bridge's  crown. 
'Midst  the  night-folded  stillness  looking  down, 

Where  huge,  mysterious,  dim-drawn  phantoms  glide 

Like  shadow  towers  that  swim  the  darkened  tide 
Of  some  fantastic  dream  of  old  renown — 

I  stand  and  gaze  where,  an  embattled  star, 
Dwarfing  the  ruddy  sparks  on  shore  and  sea, 

One  pure  and  constant  beacon  gleams  afar, 
The  flame  that  led  us,  cheered  us,  kept  us  free; 

Our  lamp  in  peace,  our  fiery  guide  in  war; 
The  outflung  torch  of  august  Liberty! 

THE  HALF-CENTURY  REUNION  AT 
GETTYSBURG 

HERE  rolled  the  iron  tempest  up  the  height, 
And  here  fell  soldiers  thick  as  new-mown  hay; 
Three  days  the  smoke  of  thundering  battle  lay 

Along  these  ridges ;  each  succeeding  night 

Fresh  heaps  of  slaughtered  forms  appalled  the  sight 
Of  torchmen  on  their  rounds;  till  drew  away 
The  Southron ;  then  the  uncrowded  face  of  day 

Stared  at  the  dreadful  trophies  of  the  fight. 

Here  Reynolds  fell ;  there  Armitage  went  down, 
With  Pickett  charging  'neath  the  thunder  pall. 
'Twas  fifty  years  ago; — the  old  renown 

Stands  regnant.   Peace  her  trophies  brings  to  all 
Those  sons  surviving ; — mark  the  olive  crown 

For  laurel,  brothers  of  the  bugle  call! 


304  SONNETS 

EVENING  AT  CITY  POINT,  JAMES  RIVER, 
1890 

Ho,w  peaceful  is  the  scene!  the  unshrouded  moon 
Casts  benediction  o'er  the  daylight's  grave. 
Scarce  doth  a  vesper  breathe,  a  ripple  lave; 

Earth  in  her  green,  voluptuous  garb  of  June, 

Faint  o'er  the  verges  of  the  wide  lagoon, 
Exhales  the  breath  of  flowers;  the  azure  wave 
Lies  bright  and  steadfast  as  a  crystal  pave, 

Yea,  even  men's  souls  seem  with  this  rest  in  tune. 

Yet  here,  too,  passion  raged;  here  once  the  roar 
Of  mortars  stunned  the  drowsy  ear  of  night; 

Thundered  the   battery — screamed  the  hurtling  shell; 

Here  smoke  and  havoc  blackened  wide  the  shore; 
This  deep  floor  shook  beneath  the  shock  of  fight, 

And  men  were  demons, — this  fair  calm  a  hell! 

CHARLOTTE  CORDAY 

THAT  gentle,  dark-haired  maiden — can  it  be — 
Hounded  with  curses  by  the  wolfish  throng 
Of  libertine  Paris?    What  hath  been  her  wrong? 

The  Judith  with  her  blood-bathed  dagger  see! 

Oh,  how  her  eyes  burn  deep  with  ecstasy! 

"For  love  of  France" !    Why  bind  the  cruel  thong 
About  her  tender  wrists?    Your  hands  are  strong; 

Have  pity — Heaven's  pure  sacrifice  is  she! 

Ah,  friends,  how  young  and  beautiful !    Love's  part 
In  her  flames  on  life's  altar;  innocent-wise 

And  proudly-sweet  she  stands;  as  on  the  cart 

She  rolls  to  death  she  lifts  her  dawn-bright  eyes 
And  views  with  welcoming  the  kind  Sunrise 

That  comes  to  shrine  her  in  its  deathless  heart! 


SONNETS  305 

SHAKESPEARE 

ONLY  to  name  thee  is  to  bring  thy  spell ! 

And  when  I  drain  the  intoxicating  bowl 

Of  thy  rapt  passion,  lo,  that  sweet  control 
Makes  free  my  heart  and  burdens  it  as  well. 
At  times  thy  voice  breathes  Orpheus'  plaintive  shell; 

At  times  Jove's  thunder,  echoing  pole  to  pole; 

Again  thou  dost  Apollo's  lyre  control, 
Or  Pan's  sweet  pipe,  or  Mars'  stern  trumpet  swell. 

In  thee  all  life  grows  regnant ;  thy  proud  range 
Of  passion  runs  its  gamut  forth  to  God. 

Thine  is  a  world  of  beauty's  constant  change, 
Sunrise  and  sunset,  star  and  flowering  sod. 

Yet  with  dim  vistas  terrible  and  strange, 

Into  whose  depths  no  one  but  thou  hast  trod! 


LINCOLN 

FOUR  square  he  stood — and  on  all  sides  a  man. 
The  dust  of  party  strife  has  fallen  away 
And  shaped  this  figure  'gainst  the  light  of  day, 

Built  on  the  rugged,  broad  Cromwellian  plan. 

Throughout  the  state  his  pregnant  message  ran, 
"For,  with  and  by  the  People" — and  that  ray 
Of  counsel  o'er  our  destinies  holds  sway, 

An  earth  to   Heaven  irradiating  span. 

He  loved,  toiled,  fought  and  conquered ;  all  the  while 
The  brother  murder  madness  bowed  him  down. 
His  mirth  saturnine  eased  the  iron  crown 

Of  public  service;  with  no  plaint  or  guile 

He  faced  the  age,  filled  wide  with  his  renown ; 

And  foiled  blind  hate  with  calmness  and  a  smile. 


306  SONNETS 


ALFRED    AND    CHARLEMAGNE 

TWIN  stars  of  that  long  twilight!  England,  thine, 
One,  and  thine,  France,  the  other;  History 
Records  no  ampler  names;  and  we  who  see 

Statecraft  with  glittering  hook  and  flimsy  line 

And  specious  bait  of  protestations  fine 

Catching  its  gudgeons,  and  the  sweaty  crowd 
Trafficked  and  trampled  by  Wealth  evil-browed, 

Might  well  for  such  stout,  simple  rule  repine. 

Oh,  English  Alfred,  wert  thou  living  now, 

How  would  they  vex  at  times  thy  steadfast  mind, 

These  Danes  of  politicians !    How  thy  brow, 
Truthteller,  oft  would  darken!  by  the  blind, 

Corrupt,  and  vaunting  ring-rule  of  to-day, 

How  grandly  stands  thy  strong,  old,  earnest  sway ! 

CROMWELL 

Ay,  call  him  a  usurper — what  you  will — 
But,  tyrant,  never!  for  no  vengeful  frown 
Clouded  the  brow  of  the  imperial  clown; 

Who,  erring  oft,  in  malice  wrought  no  ill. 

His  hand  was  hard,  yet  England  loved  him  still, 
So  like  his  bride  he  held  her;  while  Renown 
Gave  him  her  blood-sprent  amaranthine  crown, 

And  Prescience  did  with  might  his  councils  fill. 

Nations  revered  or  feared  him; — pale  alarm, 
Stretched  from  the  cloister  to  the  Papal  throne; 
The  oceans  then  were  England's  and  his  own ; 

France,  Holland,  Spain,  and  Algiers  felt  his  arm ; 
Broadcast  by  every  wind  his  fame  was  blown ; 

And  Freedom,  Fate,  dwelt  in  that  dreadful  charm! 


SONNETS  307 

ABDUL  HAMID,  THE  "SHADOW  OF  GOD" 

I  SEE  in  the  seraglio's  secret  hold 

A  venomed  wretch,  alone,  in  guarded  state, 
While  sexless  murderers  his  caprices  wait, 

Their  service  bought  with  blows  and  blood-stained  gold ; 

And  thru  the  casement  lattice  come,  deep-rolled, 
Mutterings  and  curses,  until  urged  by  hate 
The  groundswell  of  sedition  floods  his  gate; 

The  Giaours'  armed  hand  grows  daily  bold. 

The  ghosts  of  martyred  Christians  haunt  his  sleep; 

The  black  assassin  thru  his  nightmare  strays; 
He  hears  the  women  scream,  the  children  weep; 

The  Crescent  dewed  with  gore  appals  his  gaze; 
"Allah  is  Great!  the  Shepherd  loves  his  sheep!" 

For  him  Hell  yawns  and  all  her  pits  upblaze! 

GARIBALDI 

THE  child-sweet  southern  spirit!  how  it  shone 
In  thee,  blithe  player  of  war's  desperate  game! 
O'er  Piedmont's  venturous  shield  her  sword  became 

In  thy  swift  hand  a  meteor,  flashed  a  dawn, 

A  herald  streak  of  noontide!    Thou  art  gone 
From  earth,  but  thy  unmatched  heroic  name 
Is  zenith  star  i»  thy  fair  country's  fame, 

The  topmost  jewel  round  her  forehead  drawn. 

Freedom's  bold  knight — she  her  resistless  art 
Taught  thee,  her  lion  will;  opposing  odds 
But  swelled  thy  triumph;  like  an  antique  god's 

Thy  soul  unstintedly  played  out  its  part ; 
No  more,  Italia,  bow  to  Europe's  rods, 

His  name  upon  thy  lips,  within  thy  heart! 


308  SONNETS 

SALVINI 

I  SAW  him  once — he  was  that  tortured  Moor 

Whom  Shakespeare  limned  with  his  earth-startling  pen  ; 
An  awe-inspiring  figure  to  one's  ken, 

Whose  suffering  scarce  could  lengthen  and  endure. 

Maddened  and  bending  to  lago's  lure, 
Yet  noble  thru  his  frenzy;  of  all  men 
Most  thwarted  and  despairing;  greatest  when 

He  made  the  vain  heart-breaking  murder  sure. 

Sublime  concept — that  can  so  shake  the  soul 
With  mimic  thunder  that  the  grave  has  stilled. 

Even  now  those  rhythmic  imprecations  roll 
Thru  memory  till  the  heart  of  mind  is  chilled. 

Art  has  no  ampler  triumph — that  takes  toll 
Of  feeling  where  no  sense  can  shape  or  build. 


OTHELLO 

ALAS,  for  love  unwise  that  loves  too  well! 

She  was  the  queen  of  thy  most  loyal  heart; 

Dark   Intrigue  on   thy   trusting  spirit   fell, 

And  Jealousy  thrust  deep  her  poisoned  dart. 

Honor  and  Pride  were  throned  midst  thy  desires. 

Honor   and    Pride   both   lost   their  sovereignty; 

Upon  their  altars  flamed  Revenge's  fires; 

Fate  to  the   Furies  turned  thy  destiny. 

The  greatness  of  thy  Faith  was  made  its  loss; 

The  merit  of  thy  Love  was  found  its  blame ; 

Foul  Murder  bore  a  sacrificial  cross; 

Rash  Retribution  stood  in  Justice'  name; 

These  broke  thy  heart,  thou  could'st  not  choose  but  die, 

Too  great  for  life  with  Crime  for  life's  ally. 


SONNETS  309 


IRVING 

I  SAW  him  last  as  Shylock — time  had  then 
Mellowed  his  art  and  furnished  the  sublime 
To  round  his  action;  'twas  his  later  prime, 

The  most  impressive  presence  among  men. 

As  in  a  herd  of  deer  a  stag  of  ten 

He  towered  above  his  fellows;  after  time 
Never  may  see  again  such  wondrous  climb 

Toward  the  ideal  in  the  craftsman's  ken. 

Shylock  has  passed  with  him — save  in  thy  page, 
O  Shakespeare!  he  has  vanished  from  our  view. 

That  father  love,  that  avarice,  pride  and  rage, 
That  hate  and  cunning,  no  one  may  renew; 

He  was  not  all  of  genius,  but  a  mage 

So  potent,  doubting  were  not  wise  nor  true. 

BOOTH 

THE  poetry  of  action  claimed  its  king; — 
The  realm  of  rhythm  knew  its  overlord; — 
He  was  the  Dane — his  foot  upon  the  board 

Fell  with  the  tread  of  fate, — his  soul  a-swing 

'Twixt  doubt  and  certainty ;  Revenge's  wing 
Sweeping  him  on  and  yet  to  qualms  restored ; 
Irresolute  to  the  last;  then  with  his  sword 

Cutting  the  snarl  of   Circumstanced  string. 

The  impress  of  that  scene  is  with  me  still; 

The  dim-lit  chamber  and  the  mother's  tears  ; 
The  ghostly  figure,  towering  and  chill; 

The  prince's  courage  shining  thru  his  fears; 
The  grace  of  movement,  the  upsoaring  will, 

Abide  and  strengthen  thru  the  passing  years. 


3io  SONNETS 

ON   READING  THE   AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF 
BENVENUTO   CELLINI 

WITH  swagger  and  with  cloak  about  him  caught, 
Here  view  the  vain,  vindictive  Florentine; 
Clothed  with  an  artist  spirit  proud  and  keen, 

Which  through  a  rapt  and  fiery  passion  wrought 

Works  of  undying  beauty,  and  so  bought 

The  world's  allegiance ;  bringing  from  that  scene 
Of  struggle  purity  out  of  ways  unclean, 

That  spirit  of  art  for  whose  uplift  he  fought. 

Cellini,  thy  no  less  immortal  book 

Lays  like  a  scalpel  bare  the  form  of  man, 

That  inner  frame,  the  soul.    Through  all  thy  time, 
Bloody  and  turbulent,  thou  didst  not  brook 

One  faltering  of  thy  hand,  while  thou  didst  plan 
Thy  life-work  flowering  to  its  princely  prime. 

JOHN  HENRY  BONER 

I  KNEW  him  well,  the  gentle  pensive  soul 
Death  had  untimely  marked;  and  in  his  eye 
The  pathos  of  the  doomed  that  to  the  sky 

Lifts  a  long  hope  disease  may  not  control. 

Unto  the  warm,  bright  South  his  heart  was  whole; 
Far  from  the  whispering  pines  that  wooed  his  sigh, 
He  trod  life's  fettered  round,  nor  made  reply 

To  the  rude  fevered  strife  that  claimed  its  dole. 

He  passed  beyond  my  ken,  yet  left  behind 
The  lingering  memory  cadence  of  his  voice, 

And  of  his  verse,  so  passion  souled  and  kind. 
Alas,  the  first  is  soundless,  though  the  choice 

Gift  of  his  song  survives,  and  in  my  mind 

And  heart  it  echoes,  "mourn  not  but  rejoice." 


SONNETS  311 

THE    HOUSE   OF   LORDS 

AY,  let  them  go!  too  long  they've  held  at  bay 

Hedged  in  by  precedent  the  people's  right. 

Once  they  were  bold  to  quell  a  tyrant's  might; 
They  stood  a  mail-clad  rampart  in  their  day 
'Gainst  foreign  thraldom;  those  have  passed  away 

Like  stars  that  vanish  in  the  dawning  light. 

Now  outworn  rule  and  old  observance  trite 
With  cankering  blight  and  poison  shadow  sway 

Over  the  realm  of  England — o'er  the  height 
Of  Time's  new  mason-work  those  branches  gray, 

Moss-grown,  decrepit,  weave  a  creaking  night 
Of  old  obstructions ;  rise,  let  in  the  ray 

Young  heart  of  English  Freedom !  deep  then  bite 
Thine  axe,  Democracy!  to  the  trunk's  base  lay 

And  clear  the  sapless  dotage  from  your  sight! 

DON    QUIXOTE 

GAUNT,  rueful  knight,  on  raw-boned,  shambling  hack, 
Thy  battered  morion,  shield  and  rusty  spear 
Jog  ever  down  the  road   in  strange  career, 

Both  tears  and  laughter  following  on  thy  track; 

Stout  Sancho  hard  behind,  whose  leathern  back 
Is   curved    in  clownish  sufferance;   mutual   cheer 
The  quest  beguiling,  as,  devoid  of  fear, 

Thou  spurrest  to  rid  the  world  of  rogues,  alack! 

Despite  fantastic  creed  and  addled  pate, 

Of  awkward  arms  and  weight  of  creaking  steel, 

Nobility  is  thine; — the  high  estate 

That  arms  knights-errant  for  all  human  weal. 

How  rare,  La  Mancha,  grow  such  souls  of  late; 
Dear  foiled  enthusiast,  teach  our  hearts  to  feel ! 


312  SONNETS 

TO   THE    MOON-FLOWER 

PALE  climbing  disk,  who  dost  lone  vigil  keep 

When  all  the  flower-heads  droop  in  drowsy  swoon  ; 
When  lily  bells  fold  to  the  zephyr's  tune, 

And  wearied  bees  are  lapped  in  sugared  sleep; 

What  secret  hope  is  thine?    What  purpose  deep? 
Art  thou  enamoured  of  the  siren  moon 
That  thus  thy  white  face  from  the  god  of  noon 

Thou  coverest,  while  his  chariot  rounds  the  steep? 

Poor,  frail  Endymion!  know  her  lustre  fine 

Is  .but  the  cold,  reflected  majesty 
That  clothes  the  great  sun's  regent — borrowed  shine 

Of  Him  who  yields  restricted  ministry, 
Thy  bright  creator;  he  did  ne'er  design 

The  proud,  false  queen  should  fealty  claim  of  thee ! 


THE   CONDOR 

HIGH  above  clouds  and  mountains,  through  thin  air 

Prone  on  his  waving  vans  he  rushing  flies; 

The  great  dread  corsair  admiral  of  the  skies, 
For  prey  and  plunder  ravening  everywhere. 
The  sun  doth  not  so  pitilessly  stare 

As  those  red  eye-balls  glare  with  fierce  surmise ; 

He  stoops,  but  only  to  obtain  a  prize, — 
The  struggling  victim  that  his  talons  bear. 

Heroic  strength  and  lawless  majesty 

Dowering  a  ruthless  vulture!  born  to  slay, 

And  rob  the  peaceful  flocks  of  their  increase; 

He  shrinks  at  naught,  untamed  as  he  is  free. 
He  holds  his  stern  and  unremorseful  way, 

And  screams  defiant  protest  against  Peace! 


SONNETS  313 

HONOR   AND    FAME 

HONOR,  the  virgin  knight,  bright  vigil  keeps; 

May  Heaven  assoil  him  and  prevent  him  blame! 

While  Fame,  the  pander,  rides  in  Honor's  name, 
In  Honor's  mail  and  his  fair  guerdon  reaps. 
Honor  upon  his  arms  securely  sleeps, 

While  midnight  phantoms  shake  the  soul  of  Fame. 

Honor's  clear  saintly  eyes  are  void  of  shame; 
Fame  his  misdeeds  now  vaunteth  and  now  weeps. 

These  ever  cross  each  other  in  the  field, 
Supposed  allies;  yet  Honor  holds  in  scorn 
The  boaster,  Fame,  and  when  he  winds  his  horn 

Fame   shrinks   beneath  his   gaudy,   glistering  shield. 
For  Honor's  titles  stand  secure  and  broad, 
And  on  his  breast  he  wears  the  cross  of  God. 

LOVE   AND   TRUTH 

LOVE'S  rosy  robe  is  wrought  with  Truth's  design, 

And  Truth's  white  brows  by  Love  are  garlanded; 

Blindfolded  Love  by  clear-eyed  Truth   is  led, 
And  Truth  austere  smiles  oft  on  Love  benign. 
While  Love  stands  strong  Truth  doth  not  fret  nor  pine; 

While  Truth  holds  firm  Love  fears  no  path  to  tread, 

But  wears  the  amaranth  on  his  royal  head, 
And  his  fair  hands  bear  clusters  of  the  vine. 
These  are  the  twain  that  ever  walk  the  earth 

With  offerings  rich  and  greetings  manifold; 
These  the  proud  sponsors  for  the  sons  of  Worth 

Who  curb  the  traitor,  Self,  cruel  and  cold; 
Yea,  without  them  no  gracious  thing  hath  birth; 

And  Heaven  by  their  high  counsels  is  controlled. 


3H  SONNETS 

WISDOM   AND    KNOWLEDGE 

KNOWLEDGE  the  Proud  sits  oft  in  Wisdom's  seat, 

With  robe  and  sceptre,  crown  and  orb  of  power ; 

While  Wisdom  wanders  lone  thru  sun  and  shower 
With  few  to  grant  her  shelter  or  to  eat. 
Yet  to  proved  souls  is  Wisdom  Paraclete; 

Her  heart  is  pure,  her  mind  blooms  like  a  flower; 

And  quietly  she  waiteth  for  that  hour 
When  she  shall  reign  with  Knowledge  at  her  feet. 

Wisdom  hath  light  within; — few  recognize 

Whence  comes  that  smile,  the  sweetener  of  pain ; 

Or  how  the  yearning  of  those  patient  eyes 
Works  all  unseen  like  fertilizing  rain; 

Knowledge  is  moon-bright,  hosts  her  rule  obey, — 

But  Wisdom  turns  the  world  and  leads  the  day. 


PEACE 

PEACE — what  is  peace?     Not  this — to  dwell  secure, 
A  moth  upon  the  downy  edge  of  time, 
Wasting  in  careless  ease  life's  summer  prime, 

While  others  fight  the  battle  and  endure. 

Ah,  no!  this  is  the  selfish  devil's  lure, 

A  pinchbeck  peace  that  hath  no  ringing  chime; 
Peace  knows  no  earthly  price,  no  age  or  clime, 

But  comes  unasked  to  upright  hearts  and  pure. 

No!  war  is  the  world's  province — stress  and  strife 
And  strenuous  toil  that  never  quits  the  field 

'Till  Death  reaps  in  his  harvest;  'tis  in  pain 

That  Progress  brings  her  offspring  into  life; 
Peace  hath  no  quality  that  earth  doth  yield — 

It  comes  from  God  and  goes  to  God  again. 


SONNETS  315 

FORTITUDE 

THAT  is  not  failure,  rightly  understood, 

Though   lacking   furtherance,   when   we've  wrought 
our  best; 

If  we  have  put  our  manhood  to  the  test 
Nor  found  it  wanting;  if  we,  unsubdued, 
Suffer  defeat,  we  have  but  taken  food 

And  water  to  our  souls;  shall  be  twice  blest; 

Stronger  in  heart,  not  shrunken  in  the  breast, 
Stamping  Faith's  signet  on  the  hardening  mood. 

Thus  did  Coligny,  still  defeated,  rise 

Proudly  unconquered ;  thus  did  Alfred  crown 

Constancy  with  success;  thwarted  likewise 
Columbus  reached  the  summit  of  renown ; 

Thus  Washington  opposed  the  troops  of  George, 

Undaunted,  midst  the  snows  of  Valley  Forge. 

THE    UNSEEN   WORLD 

THE  spirits  of  the  dead  are  with  us  still; 

Part  of  our  being,  instinct  to  our  life, 

Familiars  light  and  dark;  all  space  is  rife 
With  influences  that  mould  our  plastic  will, 
Unseen  yet  felt,  unknown  yet  guessed  at,  till 

Death  plucks  away  the  mask  of  flesh,  or  strife 

Of  soul  wears  out  the  body  as  a  knife 
Frets  thru  its  sheath  then  feels  a  naked  thrill. 

For  nature  wars  within  us  with  a  sense 

Mysterious,  conjoined,  yet  not  of  her, 
Subduing  yet  subdued ;  but  when  the  tense 

Bond  of  their  union  slackens,  then  the  whirr 
Of  the  soul's  wings  is  heard,  our  essence  soars 
Transfigured,  lighted  from  the  eternal  shores. 


316  SONNETS 

HUMANITAS 

THOUGH  faith  in  heaven  be  gone,  not  so  in  man ; 

Nor  is  God  wanting,  though  we  know  him  not. 

If  our  primeval  visions  be  forgot, 
We  still  weave  dreams  though  on  a  saner  plan. 
If  once  again  we  turn  to  reverence  Pan, 

Love  none  the  less  has  angels,  and  I  wot, 

That  should  this  life  be  all  our  bound  and  lot, 
Hearts  still  will  yearn  as  erst  when  faith  began. 

Hearts  will  o'erflow  with  larger,  sweeter  thought; 

Hands  will  unclose  and  close  in  brotherhood; 
Blood  will  not  flow  for  naught  or  worse  than  naught; 

Man  will  know  man  and  life  be  understood; 
Religion's  chain  of  orient  pearls  be  brought 

To  wreathe  the  shrine  of  Nature's  holyrood. 


PERSONALITY 

I  AM  not  what  I  seem,  nor  any  two 

See  me  alike  or  as  myself  I  see; 

Nor  does  myself  with  my  own  self  agree, 
But  e'er  in  counterfeit  myself  I  view; 
Ay,  even  to  myself  I  stand  untrue; 

Some  see  a  ghost  and  think  that  ghost  is  me; 

And  when  they  turn  a  searchlight  on  I  flee 
Into  that  self  whence  all  my  shadows  grew. 

For  Nature  doth  in  me  exhaust  her  arts 

And  weave  her  mysteries  beyond  human  ken ; 

For  my  true  self  is  made  of  many  parts; 
In  some  one  part  I  touch  my  fellowmen; 

Yet  I,  unknown,  unknowing  other  hearts, 
Am  but  the  dream  life  varies  o'er  again. 


SONNETS  317 

DUTY 

I  HAVE  pledged  life,  not  for  itself  alone, 

Nor  for  the  happiness  or  renown  it  brings, 

Nor  wealth,  nor  power,  nor  beauty,  nor  the  wings 

Of  enterprise,  nor  gay-browed  Pleasure's  tone. 

I   have  pledged  life  that  ere  my  span  be  flown 
I  might  be  known  as  one  who  earnest  sings 
Of  faith  and  love,  of  high  and  noble  things, 

Unto  the  youth  the  coming  age  shall  own. 

Yet   I   am  little  better  than  a  voice 

Heard  daily  in  the  market-place  whom  men 
List  idly  and  turn  upon  their  way  again; 

But  on  my  spirit  there   is  laid  this  choice 
Of  service;   let  me  do  my  duty  then 

And  let  me  in  my  duty's  path  rejoice. 


SCIENCE 

I  SAW  the  spangled  curtain  of  the  night 

Drawn  backward  by  the  radiant  hand  of  day, 
Till  like  to  streams  of  molten   silver  lay 

The   water   courses;    soon   wide   grew   the   light 

Across  the  misty  valleys;  bathed  each  height 
And  hoary  mountain  in  its  kindling  ray, 
And  gave  o'er  wakened  earth  a  newer  sway 

To   life,    a  new  enfranchisement   to  sight. 

So  Science,  not  with  miscalled  wings  of  lead, 
Nor  harpy-like,  confounding — but  with  plumes 

All  lustred  with  the  rays  of  morning's  prime, 

Dawns  a  benignant  goddess; — on  her  head 

The  amaranth  of  new  faith  and  knowledge  blooms; 

And  through  her  soul  and  vision  wake  sublime. 


3i8  SONNETS 

THE    TIDE    OF    TIME 

BORN  out  of  earthquake  and  the  tempest's  night 
I  saw  a  mighty  wave;  and  tossed  like  straw, 
Swam  on  its  crest  the  drift  of  years;  its  maw 

Crowns,  coronets,  mitres,  swords,  gulped  down  from  sight; 

And  momently,  from  that  long  scarf  of  white 
A  roaring  came  as  of  voices,  and  great  awe 
Fell  on  me,  and  I  heard  a  cry,  "Old  law 

Is  dead,  is  dead!     We  live  in  the  new  light!" 

Still  onward  surged  the  wave,  until  the  sky 

Rent  suddenly,  and  Heaven's  prismic  bow  was  cast 
Across  the  waters;  the  contention  vast 

Stood  hushed,   all  still  the  swollen  flood   did  lie; 
I  heard  a  trumpet  voice,  that  cried,  "At  last!" 

And  lo,  a  dove  with  green  palm  branch  swept  by. 


DEATH 

DREAD  foe  to  life,  thou  bearer  of  the  seal 
Of  mystery  and  fate,  I  argue  nought 
Against  thee  nor  repine  that  Joy  and  Thought 

Must  reach  thee  in  the  round  of  Fortune's  wheel; 

For  thy  domain  brings  rest;  to  thy  dread  steel 

Are  dragged  Time's  favors;  prince  and  priest  are  brought 
To  the  one  role  with  knave  and  drudge  and  wrought 

Into  the  framework  of  the  common-weal. 

Yet  Genius  arms  against  thee — ceaseless  toils 
The  free,  unquenchable  spirit  of  the  Lamp; 

Revives  the  fainting  and  the  dead  assoils; 

Even  where  thy  banners  surge,  thy  legions  tramp, 

Art,  life's  proud  Avatar,  thy  purpose  foils, 

While  Love,  the  evangel,  braves  thee  in  thy  camp. 


SONNETS  319 


THE    CLOSING    WALLS 

FEW  live  the  truth, — in  fortune  few  are  free, 
And  fewer  still  in  spirit.     We  but  wear 
The  cap  and  badge  of  worldly,  servile  care,       » 

And  catch  faint  glimpse  of  higher  destiny. 

God  help  us!  what  we  would  we  may  not  be; 

Our  hearts,  like  opening  flowers  were  pure  and  fair; 
Now  lords  are  we  of  spirits  starved  and  bare, 

We   live  no  wiser  for  the  ills  we  see. 

Oh,  deadly  blight  of  soul!  the  world  doth  gain 
Upon  us  daily,  and  sweet  Nature's  voice 

Is  heard  no  more  or  faintly;  we  but  strain 
To  play  the  role  of  petty  Caesars;  choice 

Is  ever  leagued  with  interest,  and  we  sneer 

Across  the  grave  of  what  our  youth  held  dear. 


LIFE'S    VOYAGE 

FATE  drives  me  forth  upon  an  unknown  sea — 

Ever  I  view  the  shoals  that  round  me  lie. 
Fond    youth,    adieu!      Come,    manhood,    strong    and    free, 

Courage  and  purpose  are  the  oars  I  ply. 

My  sunny  morning  dreams,  I  pass  them  by; 
All  gray  the  noon-tide  clouds  that  hem  me  round; 

I  hear  afar  the  curlew's  woeful  cry, 
What  care  I  if  my  boat  is  staunch  and  sound. 
Better  to  sink,  than  in  sad  soul  profound 

To  drive  my  bark  amidst  embaying  cares; 
Better  the  tempest  and  the  gaping  wound 

Than  stranded  log-like  on  the  world's  affairs; 
Spread  sail,  and  fly  the  banner  from  the  truck — 
The  voyage  is  on,  bold  heart,  now  try  your  luck! 


320  SONNETS 

THE    RETURN 

ONCE  more  the  green  turf  bends  beneath  my  feet ; 

The  brooding  silence  of  the  woods  sifts  down 

Across  my  spirit;  gone  the  dusty  town, 
The  noise  and  fretful  fever  of  the  street. 
Here  spreads  the  balm  of  Nature,  soothful,  sweet; 

No  Timon's  curse  comes  here,  no  Caesar's  frown ; 

Breaks  not  the  clangorous  strife  of  sword  or  gown; 
Only  the  soft  breeze  and  the  birds'  "weet,  weet!" 

I  throw  aside  life's  sombre  cloak  of  care; 

Good-bye,  Convention !     Hope  renew  thy  theme ! 
Take,    Mother,    back    thy    world-worn,    wayward    child; 
The  soul  grows  rhythmic  in  this  charmed  air. 

The  floweret's  zest  is  mine,  the  woodland's  dream, — 
And  with   all   life   again   I'm   reconciled! 


GRAND     MANAN 

A  HUGE,  black  fort  of  Neptune, — 'gainst  the  sky 
It  heaves  its  bastion  through  cold  Fundy's  pall, 
Scoured  by  a  million  winters ;  round  it  brawl 

The  hoarse-tongued  breakers;  there  long-trailing  fly 

The  West-wind's  rainy  streamers;  there  untie 

Their  hair  the  storm's  shrill  maenads;  down  its  wall 
The  lightning's  jagged  javelins  carve  and  scrawl 

Jove's  words  as  on  the  gust  they  thunder  by. 

The  gull  screams  wheeling  o'er  it — round  it  dives 

The  deep,  dark-green  abyss;  when  days  are  fair 
The  dingy  fisher  skiffs  their  lines  unreel 
Close  to  the  base;  but  woe  to  him  who  drives 
Blind  on  in  storm ;  there  hope  hath  no  appeal — 
The  monster's  sides  stand  steep  as  man's  despair! 


SONNETS  321 

THE    WATER    LILY 


GEMMING  the  bosom  of  thy  mother  lake, 

Swayed  to  and  fro  through  morning's  zephyr  hours, 
Or  ripple-rocked   to  sleep  as  evening  lowers, 

Folded    until   the  sun's   bright  javelins  shake 

Grey  riot  to  heart  of  darkness — thou  dost  break, 
Wooing  all  hearts  that  haunt  thy  reedy  bowers, 
Light  as  blown  foam,  the  Nereid  of  the  flowers, 

And  virgin-pure   for  thine  own  beauty's  sake. 

Pale  lovely  blossoms!  as  my  rowboat  slides 
Among  your  level  targes  floating  green, 

Spreading  a  wind-swept  carpet  o'er  the  waves, 

Upon  my  sense  your  fragrant  whiteness  glides 
With  ravishment;  are  ye  the  souls  all  clean 

Of  fair  frail  girls  who  sleep  in  watery  graves? 

II 

No,  we  are  Daylight's  children — we  are  born 
From  out  the  ooze  where  lurks  the  water-snake, 
And  where  the  perch  and  minnow  harbor  make, — 

White  as  the  blest  of  Resurrection  Morn. 

When  from  our  watery  cradles  we  are  torn 

We  droop  with  grief — in  sweet  complaining  break, 
And   fading  die;  we,  vestals  of  the  lake, 

Give  praise  to  Him  who  doth  our  forms  adorn. 

We  envy  no  one's  wealth;  we  dwell  alone, 
Unthought  of  by  our  sisters  of  the  plain; 
Ever  we  in  our  peaceful  passion  lie, 
Stars  of  the  light-time,  gazing  up  the  sky 
As  long  as  Day's  fond  glance  is  on  us  thrown — 
Then  sleeping,  dream  that  he  will  come  again! 


322  SONNETS 


SPRING    MORNING 

ROUGH  hearted  Winter  yields  his  realm  to  Spring, 
His  diamond  crown  and  ermine  stained  in  flight. 
Lo,  Spring  hath  ta'en  the  valleys!     With  delight 

She  winds  her  echoing  horn;  on  home-bound  wing 

The   truant   birds   flock   to   her   welcoming; 

O'er  earth  her  emerald  cloak,  embroidered  bright, 
She  flings;  she  doth  the  tongue-tied  brooks  invite 

To   gossip  while  the  early  zephyrs   sing. 

Now  red-cheeked  Morn  in  saffron  vest,  a-field, 
Trips  down  the  hills  and  wakes  the  drowsy  swains; 
The  Earth  hath  washed  her  morning  face  with   rains; 
The  Buttercup  her  golden  chalice  rears 
To  dews;  the  Daisy '«s  gold-bossed,  silver  shield 
Gleams  gaily,  buttressed  by  a  sheaf  of  spears! 


SUMMER   NIGHT    IN    THE    COUNTRY 

THERE  is  a  veiled  quiet  in  this  night; 

A  few  faint  stars  peer  through  the  curtain  dun, 
Nor  hath  the  stately  moon  usurped  the  sun, 

Who  to  the  under  world  transfers  his  right. 

The  drowsy  shadows  thicken  o'er  my  sight 

Blotting  the  landscape  out;  the  dark  close-spun, 
Drips  dews  unseen,  and  now  clear  chiming  run 

The  pebbled  brooks  from   yon  fir-crested  height. 

The  winds  lie  dead  asleep  upon  the  wold, 

Tired   with   their   wandering.      Hist!    one   tinkling   bell 
From  a  nigh  pasture  breaks  the  rhythmed  spell 

Then  leaves  the  stillness  deeper; — a  vapor  rolled 
From  off  the  mountain  like  a  ghost  doth  glide 
Athwart  the  darkness — there  is  nought  beside! 


SONNETS  323 


THE   BATHER* 

IN  musing  mood,  listless  and  happy  eyed, 
She  sits  upon  the  green  bank  of  a  stream, 
Wrapped  in  a  veiled  sun's  summer  woodland  dream, 

While  round  her  feet  start  windflowers  purple-pied, 

And  many  a  wilding  shrub  springs  free  beside 

Her  sweet  nude  limbs,  which  in  the  sunlight  gleam 
With  maiden  majesty,  as  they  might  seem 

Those  of  a  forest  nymph,  half-deified. 

O  friend,  in  her  the  creature  of  thy  hand, 
I  view  the  poet  painter's  loving  task, 
That  nothing  doth  of  lust  or  traffic  ask, 
And  only  speaks  to  brethren  of  the  Band, 
The  few  who  feel  and,  feeling,  understand, 
And  view  the  burning  soul  behind  the  mask. 

SUMMER   NOON 

A  NOONTIDE  languor  melts  into  the  air; 

The  brook  beneath  my  feet  is  keeping  tune 

Unto  the  lazy  breezes'  dreamy  rune; 
The  thrifty  bees  are  humming  everywhere; 
The  blackbird   whistles  blithe   and   debonair; 

Around  me  is  the  varied,  vivid  June 

Of  opulent  Summer  with  her  pleasant  croon, 
Bathing  the  lea  side  with  its  mellow  glare. 

Away,  dull  care — join  soul  in  Nature's  mirth! 

The  favor  of  this  pulsing  morn  is  thine. 
See  all  the  fallows  drest  in  gala  trim! 
Down  such  a  mead  Silenus  with  his  girth 

Of  vine  leaves  passed,  his  visage  stained  with  wine, 
While  flower-crowned  maidens  trolled  the  Bacchic  hymn. 

*  To  Warren  Davis  on  his  gift  of  the  picture  to  the  author. 


324  SONNETS 

TO    A    FRIEND 

DEAR  friend,  long  distant,  oft  my  thought  to  you 

Looks  forth  as  mariner  to  the  Northern  Star; 
For  you  have  stedfast  shining,  comrade  true, 

That  night  but  brightens,  distance  cannot  mar. 
And  I  have  faith,  what  griefs  to  leeward  lie, 

Or  head-winds  take  aback  my  steady  sail, 
Or  calumny  o'er-cloud  the  smiling  sky, 

Your  cheer,  accord,  and  favor  will  not  fail. 
True  fellowship  hath  a  touch  most  wondrous  fine, 

A  voice  that  strikes  no  dull  material  ear, 
A  gaze  that  draws  the   soul;   no   pinchbeck  shine, 

No  counterfeit  custom,  passes  current  here; 
For  he  hath  fortune,  beyond  need  to  spend, 
Who  makes  his  heart  the  treasury  of  his   friend. 


LOVE 

LOVE  frees  us  from  ourselves  yet  makes  us  slaves; 

He  moves  our  souls  yet  gives  us  fixed  intent; 
He  whelms  us  like  a  barque  o'ercome  with  waves, 

Then  towards  the  stars  he  lifts  us,  eminent. 

Before  his  shrine  the  haughtiest  crests  are  bent, 
And  oft  he  clothes  the  clown  with  princely  rage; 

He  hath  a  will  brooks  no  arbitrament, 
Yet  hath  he  patience  of  a  meagre  wage. 

His  sweetest  pleasures  ever  are  kin  to  pain; 
His  choicest   blessings   oft   bring  direst   curse; 

Man  would  lose  all  for  Love  and  count  it  gain, 
Though  howsoe'er  a  niggard  of  his  purse; — 

Thus  in  Love's  quiver  all  contention  lies 

Twixt  good  and  ill — his  shafts  are  women's  eyes! 


SONNETS  325 

THE   CONJUNCTION   OF   LOVE 

LIKE  as  two  waves,  by  spheric  pulses  driven, 

Rolling  from  Orient  and  from  Occident, 
Meet   in   mid-sea  beneath   the   arch   of   Heaven 

And  forthwith  mingling  are  forever  blent — 
So  may  two  souls,  though  Nature  at  beginning 

Long  from  sweet  converse  sundered  them  afar, 
Yet  fatefully  their   destined  courses  winning, 

Meet  and  unite  beneath  Love's  fixed  star; — 
For  come  all  winds  and  sweep  the  earth-round  ocean, 

Bearing  the  thunderbolt  within  its  breast, 
Till  the  lashed  deep   is  fevered  to  commotion, 

Making  his  moan  and  never  finding  rest, — 
Yet  these  two  souls  once  met   can  never  part, 
For  mind  hath  wed  with  mind  and  heart  with  heart! 


THE  SECURITY  OF  LOVE 

THERE  bides  no  bulwark  against  adverse  fate 

Save  in  the  shield  and  helm  of  faithful  love; 

With  them  a  man,  though  shaken,  towers  above 
The  throng,  investured  with  that  proud  estate. 
The  hell-born  host  will  shun  such  brow  sedate, 

Nor  e'er  attempt  that  heart's  rich  treasure  trove; 

For,   like  to   Noah's  olive-bearing   dove, 
The  promise  fails  not  nor  the  hopes  abate. 

For  mutual  strength  o'er-tops  the  mutual  need; 

And  mutual  faith  o'er-crowns  the  mutual  fear ; 
And   mutual    toil   shall   earn   the   double   meed, 

And  mutual  hope  bring  forth  unchanging  cheer; 
For    in   thy  love   I   must   prove   all    indeed, 

While  in  my  love  thy  favor  grows  not  sere. 


326  SONNETS 

THE  FORTITUDE  OF  LOVE 

SWEETHEART,  what  storms  may  come  (and  not  a  few 
May  dark  our  lives'  horizon),  yet  I  know, 
Clasped   hand  in  hand,   come   all  the  winds  that  blow, 

We  shall  not  blench  but  front  them,  for  we  two 

Sail  not  for  pleasure  of  the  public  view 
Through  shallow  bays,  but  to  the  ocean  go 
Where  the  skies  ring  the  sea,  the  deep  tides  flow, 

And  lay  our  course  by  one  clear  star  and  true. 

And  round  our  course  the  ocean  bird  shall  scream, 
The  harbinger  of  faith,  against  the  gale; 
Yea,  every  sea-mew  shall  take  up  the  tale 

And  bear  it  to  the  ocean's  fartherest  gleam, 

How  our  two  hearts  have  trimmed  the  tautest  sail 

That  ever  held  the  love-winds  o'er  the  beam. 


THE   FAVOR   OF  LOVE 

To  me  hath  Heaven  given  a  work  for  doing, 

I  may  not  shirk  it  or  I  wreck  my  life; 
All  slothful  instincts  to  my  nature  suing 

Wage  with  my  high  intent  a  civil  strife. 
My  day  is  overcast  nor  can  I  see 

The  path  to  lead  me  up  the  steep  incline; 
And  all  the  summit's  wrapped  in  mystery; 

Alone  must  bear  the  brunt,  this  heart  of  mine. 
Yet  not  alone — for  love  is  at  my  side 

To  cheer  me  through  the  dark  and  devious  way ; 
I  can  bear  all  if  love  with  me  abide, 

Its  patient  hope  adorns  life's  toilsome  day; 
For  of  my  life  is  love  the  treasure  trove; 
For  love  is  life,  and  life  to  me  is  love. 


SONNETS  327 

THE    QUALITY    OF    LOVE 

MY  love  is  like  a  river  still  and  deep, 

Not   as  a   swollen   torrent    rushing  strong; 
Round   tender   memories    its   lingerings  creep, 

They  bear  a  burden  of  bright  hopes  along; 

Its  banks  are  broidered  o'er  with  flowers  of  song; 
Its  depths  reflect  the  rainbow  tinted  skies; 

Its  beauteous  landscape  doth  to  me  belong; 
Intrudes   no  poacher  with   unhallowed   eyes. 

And  as  I  float  upon  its  limpid  breast, 
I  near  the  confluent  wave  of  my  desires, 

On  which  the  darling  of  my  heart  doth  rest, 
To  whom  the  manhood  of  my  hope  aspires; 

And  lest  rogue  Fancy  should  a  recreant  prove, 

I'll  drown  him  in  the  deepest  depths  of   love. 


DEVOTION    OF   LOVE 

WHENE'ER  I  read  the  mighty  bards  of  old 

Where   mortal   love   weds   immortality, 
I  would  as  high  thy  own  dear  image  hold 

That  after  time   thine  heir   through   me   might   be. 

I   first  would  laud   thy  passion  pure  and  free, 
Thy  sweetness  next  that  grudgeth  not  its  dole, 

Thy  grace  which  charms  all  life,  thy  constancy, 
Thy  beauty  last  which  mirrors  all  thy  soul. 

For  half  my  heaven  is  born  in  thy  bright  eyes, 

Those  twins  of  deep,  dark  splendor,  kind  and  true. 

My  wintry  care  in  genial  summer  dies 

When  thy  full  sun  of  beauty  breaks  anew. 

Even  Death  itself  would  one  last  sweetness  be 

If  I,  in  dying,  could  but  die  for  thee! 


328  SONNETS 

IMMORTALITY  OF  LOVE 

WHEN  you  and  I  commingled  are  with  dust, 
Nor  one  survive  who  knew  our  forms  in  life — 
When  we  have  crossed  beyond  the  bounds  of  strife, 

Nor  may  one  say,  "I  found  them  kind  or  just"; 

Then  will  the  leafage  of  our  love,  I  trust, 

Bloom    in    this    verse    and    in    true    hearts    grow    rife, 

0  maiden,  sweetener  of  the  name  of  wife, 
A  star  whose  shine  no  smirch  of  time  may  rust. 

Your  life  thru  me  may  best  expression  find; 

And  I  in  you  best  prove  what  life  is  worth ; 
For  while  I  sing  you  queen  of  womankind, 

Each  lover  there  will  read  his  own  love's  birth. 
Ay,  we  in  lovers'  hearts  shall  live  enshrined; 

1  for  my  song — you  as  the  Flower  of  earth. 


CONSTANCY 

CONSTANT    to    thee!    ay,    while    these    lips    take    breath, 

Or  while  the  heart  throbs  to  its  spoken  vow! 
Constant  to  thee!  even  beyond  Time  and  Death, 

And  when  the  laurel  withers  from  my  brow ! 
Yes,  I  am  thine!  for  I  of  truth  am  nought 

Unless  I  find  my  complement  in  thee; 
Then  why  should  I   indulge  a  wayward  thought? 

I   lose   myself   when    I   inconstant   be. 
For  Constancy  is  the  first-loved  of   Heaven, 

Twin  sister  of  the  anchor-maiden,  Hope; 
Then  let  me  in  thy  gracious  heart  be  shriven, 

Though  Fancy  wander  with  the  world  for  scope  ; 
If  blue-eyed  Faith  gave  birth  to  Constancy, 
Then  am  I  constant,  who  keep  faith  in  thee! 


SONNETS  329 

TO  - 

AY,    more    than    when    in    blush    of    girlhood's    bloom; 

The  world  a  fairyland  around  thee  lying, 

And  every  sylph  of  sun-dyed  fancy  flying 
Between  thee  and  the  nearby  cypress  gloom, 
With  Innocence  thy  handmaid,  Joy  thy  groom, 

Ere  Hope  had  strayed  and  Faith  had  no  denying, 

When  only  thy  Ideal  taught  thee  sighing, 
And  only  Pity  led  thee  to  the  tomb — 
I  love  thee — for  the  chrism  of  earthly  pain 

That  robbed  thee  of  thy  gayness,  yet  did  thrill. 
Thy  rarer  sensibilities,   made  plain 

The  higher  grace  of  life  with  lowlier  will; 
The  lily  is  sweeter  for  the  cloud  and  rain, 

And    care    and    grief    have    left    thee    lovelier    still! 


TO 


WHEN  I  reflect  that  this  warm  heart  of  mine 
Must  chill,  fail,  wither  and  to  dust  decay, 
And  I  no  more  shall  view  the  face  of  day, 
Nor  drink  again  the  air  of  Spring  like  wine, 
Nor  hear  the  birds  their  matin  loves  refine, 
When  all  my  memory  is  a  mouldered  bay, 
And   I  have  mingled  with  the  shadows  gray 
That  throng  beyond   the  senses'   border  line; — 
Then  when  I  think  of  all  thou  bringst  to  me, 

Fresh  pleasures  of  the  Spring  or  music's  voice; 
Thou  of  sweet  shade  and  fruitage,  my  palm  tree 
In   this  parched  desert — thou  my  only  choice 
In  the  whole  world  of  women — heart  and  breath 
Grow  sorrowful  at  wasteful,  envious  Death. 


330  SONNETS 

THE    IDEAL 
i 

I  HAD  a  vision  of  a  fair  maid's  face; 

A  dream  of  brook-brown  eyes  and  midnight  hair, 

Of  swan-like  neck  and   breast,   the  queenly   air 
Of  Dian,  full  accoutred  for  the  chase; 
Thus  Fancy  led  her  radiant  forth  from  space, 

All  sweet  and  stately,  beauteous,  kind,  and  rare; 

"Alas!"  I  said,  "where  may  I  find  her,  where?" 
And  locked  my  heart  upon  this  for  a  space. 

Then,  like  the  rose-bud  swelling  with  its  dream, 

My  fancy  heaved  those  breasts  and  brimmed  those  eyes; 

Oft  from  those  outlets  of  the  soul  a  beam 
Fell  on  me  from  the  spirit's  inner  skies ; 

I  said,   "Lie  there  within  my   heart, — I   deem 
O  Love,  no  flesh  may  ever  make  thee  prize." 

THE  IDEAL  FOUND 
ii 

So,  like  a  miser  fondling  his  dear  gold, 

Oft  would  I  count  those  pure  perfections  o'er, 
Hugging  to  heart  my  wondrous,  earthless  store, 

Whose   charms    shamed    all    life's    glories    manifold; 

Then  with  a  bitter  mockery  I  grew  bold, 
For  there  was  not  in  prose  or  poet's  lore 
Such  jewel  found  as  my  proud  fancy  wore — 

"This,  too,  will  vanish  when  my  veins  grow  cold." 

But  as  I  went  all   dully  on  my   round, 

Nought    hoping,     seeking,     for     my     dream-land     mate, 
I   entered   suddenly  on   enchanted   ground, 

Invading  Heaven  by  some  rosed  postern  gate — 
For  in  thy  form  my  loved  ideal  I  found, 

And  in  thine  eyes  I  stood  betrayed  of  Fate! 


SONNETS  33i 

TO  ASTREA 

(Eight  sonnets  in  the  Elizabethan  manner.) 


FAIR  art  thou  as  when  Spring  and  Summer  join ; 
Spring  o'er  thy  form  and  Summer  in  thy  heart; 
Like  the  opposing  image  on  a  coin 

Beauty  and  grace  their  equal  world  impart. 
Like  the  Spring's  blossoms  stand  thy  cheeks  in  bloom, 

And  like  the  Summer  cherry  is  thy  lip; 
Yet  Spring  and  Summer  both  shall  front  their  doom, 
And  wintry  Death  thy  buoyant  beauty  trip. 

Then  think  on  all  the  raptures  thou  shalt  lose, 
If  thou  to  love  too  long  thy  charms  deny; 

For  Fate  may  then  thy  foolish  claims  refuse, 
And  thy  proud  favors  withered  all  shall  die; 

While  the  pale  ghosts  of  lovers  thou  hast  slain 

Will  rise  and  thy  cold  cruelty  arraign. 

H 

LIKE  the  queen  bee  art  thou  and  they  the  drones 

Who  on  thy  course  triumphal  still  attend; 
Lovers  who  mark  thy  passage  with  their  moans 

And  for  thy  favor  life  and  substance  spend; 
Or  like  the  pelican  who  doth  repast 

Its  young  with  its  owTn  blood,  so  do  their  hearts 
Squander  their  pulses,  even  to  the  last, 

On  thee  who  dost  repay  them  with  false  arts. 

For  tho  thou  art  Time's  darling,  Summer's  joy, 
Thy  soul  is  barren  of  Love's  flowering  ruth; 

Created  wert  thou  lealty  to  annoy 

And  make  thy  mock  of  fealty  and  truth. 

So  frozen  thy  heart,  that  let  Love  shoot  his  best, 

His  arrows  still  fall  blunted  from  thy  breast. 


332  SONNETS 


in 

LIGHT  as  the  wandering  thistledown  thou  art, 

Sowing  in  fallow  soils  its  freight  of  tares; 
For  Nature  formed  a  bubble  of  thine  heart 

Wherein  is  limned  its  fancy's  flaunting  wares. 
For  thou  dost  smile  on  all  with  equal  grace 

And  seem'st  to  grant  yet  ever  dost  deny; 
Like  as  a  snare  outspread  thy  beauteous  face 

Ever  shows  love  yet  giveth  love  the  lie. 

Surely  God  did  thy  comely  features  plan 

To  shine  around  thee  here  an  earthly  Heaven; 

Surely  instead  of  torment  unto  man 
Nature  intended  thee  all  joy  to  leaven; 

Yet  God  and  Nature  both  are  disobeyed; 

Joy  hast  thou  slain  and  Love  thou  hast  betrayed. 


IV 

GIVE  me  thy  love  I  say  or  take  my  breath! 

One  of  the  twain  englobeth  my  desire; 

I  am  consumed ;   Heaven   in  his  ire 
Reads  me  in  torture  what  thy  sweet  lips  saith. 
Upon  me  oft  thy  false  smile  lingereth, 

Like  winter's  sun  upon  a  woodland  byre, 

Coaxing  some  early  hyacinth  to  suspire 
In  bloom,  and  then  forsake  him  to  his  death. 

Sure  thou  hast  none  with  God,  tho  thy  blest  face 
Might  draw  impassioned  angels  from  the  skies; 

Nor  sanctified  art  thou  with  Heaven's  grace, 
Altho  my  Heaven  is  regnant  in  thine  eyes; 

Tho  love  for  thee  should  drag  me  down  to  Hell, 

Even  there  thy  feigned  love  would  make  me  well! 


SONNETS  333 


WILT  thou  condemn  thy  servant  to  despair 

Whose  only  fault  is  too  much  loving  thee? 
Lo,  thou  shalt  stale  and  he  become  Time's  heir, 

While  even  thy  scorn  shall  his  advancement  be. 
For  with  his  pen  while  he  thy  beauty  paints, 

A  just  revenge  upon  thee  shall  be  taken; 
For  Love  himself,  thy  cold  caprice  attaints, 

When  Age  shall  prove  thee  faded  and  forsaken. 

So  in  this  verse  when  future  time  shall  read 

Thy  rivalship  to  Venus'  ernpery ; 
It  will  as  well  for  flattery  paint  thy  greed 

And  thy  disdain  and  cruel  mastery; — 
That  stripped  by  Age  of  charms  and  without  friend, 
Love  did  against  thee  poisoned  arrows  send. 


VI 

WHEN  in  my  dreams  I  am  by  Hope  beguiled, 

And  thou  art  kind  as  thou  art  fair  in  face; 
Queen  of  this  earth  and  Heaven's  own  favored  child, 

Who  dost  abound  in  wit  and  sprightly  grace; 
Then  when  I  wake  and  sense  the  cruel  cheat, 

With  all  my  happy  dreams  abused  by  day, 
Could  I  the  witness  of  hard  fact  defeat, 

And  with  illusion  still  my  spirit  pay, — 

If  I  could  hood  the  falcon  of  my  heart, 
And  make  its  jesses  of  thy  witching  hair; 

As  thou  art  false  redeem  thee  in  mine  art, 

Until  men's  lips  should  laud  thee  everywhere; — 

Then,  tho  thy  falsehood  still  gives  Truth  the  lie, 

Truth  grows  in  me  and  durst  not  thee  deny. 


334  SONNETS 


VII 

THOU  hast  no  truth  nor  I  no  recompense; 

False  as  thou  art  I  must  for  needs  be  true; 
Thy  craftiness  I  miscalled  innocence, 

For  which  I  now  in  heart  must  wear  the  rue. 
That  voluntary  bondage  I  renounce, 

Yet  daily  to  my  conscience  am  forsworn; 
So  light  thy  heart  it  weighs  not  sure  an  ounce, 

Mine  hangs  like  lead  yet  proves  the  prick  of  scorn. 

Sweet  as  thou  art  and  fairer  than  the  rose, 
Thou  bear'st  a  deadlier  weapon  than  a  sword ; 

Thy  hapless  victims  are  transfixed  by  those 

Darts  from  thine  eyes  which  no  address  can  ward; 

Content  if  they  may  warm  their  hearts  awhile 

In  the  false,  fickle  solace  of  thy  smile. 


VIII 

THY  beauty  like  an  ignis  fatuus  plays 

Across  the  yearning  gaze  of  trusting  souls; 
Lovers  who  wander  forth  in  devious  ways 

Yet  never  swerve  the  nearer  to  their  goals. 
Moths  are  they,  by  the  traction  of  thine  eyes 

Drawn  to  their  death,  and  on  their  passion's  wing 
Crippled  and  scorched  and  made  a  hapless  prize 

To  thy  caprice's  thoughtless  cruel  sting. 

For  thou  dost  on  the  ruin  of  those  hearts 

Build  high  the  triumphs  of  thy  peerless  face; 

Queen  of  vain  prayers  and  mistress  of  false  arts, 

Thou  grant'st  no  quittance  and  thou  yieldst  no  grace, 

Content  to  pleasure  thy  remorseless  way 

Over  the  graves  of  those  whom  thou  dost  slay. 


A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS 


TO  SHAKESPEARE 

//  /  have  earned  some  favour  of  good  men, 

Or  if  my  song  hold  aught  of  just  or  true, 

This  happy  fortune  to  thy  grace  is  due, 
Who  things  unseen  hast  brought  within  my  ken; 
Who  hast  redeemed  my  shallow  courses  when 

I  would  run  glittering  on  the  public  view, 

And  led'st  me  into  quiet  fields  anew, 
And  turned'st  me  safe  from  many  a  noisome  fen. 
I  fly  to  thee  when  wounded,  worn,  and  faint, 

And  thou  upholdest  me  against  thy  knee; 
Thy  volume  is  my  rubric ;  no  attaint 

Dwells  in  its  page,  nor  no  absurd  decree. 
Companion,  guide,  then  friend — while  Life's  acquaint 

With  love,  thy  words  sustain  me,  make  me  free! 


HOMER 

TIME  hath  no  shore,  nor  History  port  for  thee, 
Thou  first  great  admiral  of  the  fleets  of  Song! 
To  thee  the  winds,   the  waves,   the  clouds  belong — 
The  heart  and  brain  of  broad  humanity. 
Thy  theme  swift-winged,  an  eagle's  flight,  and  free, 
All  tireless  sweeps  this  varied  world  along, 
Wide-shadowing  all   the  crawling,   fluttering  throng, 
Unbounded  as  the  shining,  thundering  sea. 

From  thy  stored  coffers  craftsmen  age  on  age 
Have  filled  their  treasuries  to  remint  the  gold; 
No  alien  verse  can  thy  full  soundings  hold ; 

While  wise  Ulysses'  guile,  Achilles'  rage, 

Doomed  Hector's  love,  from  thy  dead  tongue  are  rolled, 

And  still  dead  gods  war  in  thy  deathless  page. 

CHAUCER 

THE  heart  of  Merrie  England  sang  in  thee, 
Dan  Chaucer,  blithest  of  the  sons  of  Morn! 
How  from  that  dim  and  mellow  distance  borne 

Floats  down  thy  chiming  measures  pure  and  free, 

Minstrel  of  Pilgrim  pleasaunce!     Pageantry, 
And   Revel,  blowing  from  his  drinking-horn 
The  froth  of  malt,  and  Love  triumphant,  lorn — 

Thy  England  lives  in  these  that  live  through  thee! 

Thine  is  the  jocund  Springtime; — winsome  May, 

Crowned  with  her  daisies,  wooed  thee,  clerkly  wight! 

The  cheer  of  pastoral  breath  is  in  thy  lay, 
And  in  thy  graver  verse  thy  country's  might. 

O,  Pipe  of  Pan  at  England's  break  of  day, 
Her  noon  re-echoes  with  thy  clear  delight! 
337 


338  A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS 

TASSO 

LOVE  gilds  thy  laurel, — love  was  found  thy  blame ; 

Yet,  brightest  in  the  dungeon  shone  thy  muse. 

Not  Este,  no,  nor  Italy,  might  refuse 
Thy  due — the  poet's  wreath,  the  deathless  name. 
Thine  honor  lustres  in  thy  tyrant's  shame; 

The  cold  cell's  damps  were  Inspiration's  dews; 

The  world  hath  won  through  what  thy  hope  did  lose, 
O  Tasso,  king  of  hearts,  and  heir  of  fame! 

Ferrara's  court  is  dust.     Thy  passioned  dream 

A  grand,  immortal  pageant  did  create 
O  knightliest  bard!     Rinaldo's  hero-gleam 

Is  thine,  thrice  glorified;  thy  proud  estate, 
The  Lyre,  the  Sword,  and  Love — in  each  supreme; 

Life's  splendid  protest  at  the  doors  of  Fate! 


SPENSER 

I'VE  watched^him  stroll  with  Raleigh  by  the  wood, 
Or  Sidney,  near  the  Mulla's  rippling  brim, 
While  Nature  crooned  her  Summer-evening  hymn, 

Till  o'er  the  fields  the  new  moon's  sickle  stood. 

I've  heard  calm  words  of  courtly  brotherhood 
Chime  like  an  Angelus  through  the  ages  dim, 
And  they,  whom  all  else  honored,  honored  him, 

My  Spenser,  votary  of  the  Holy  Rood. 

They  rose  and  passed  through   Honor's  troubled  sky; 

Each  quenched  in  blood  his  fitful,  fervent  star; 
He  dwelt  apart,  unknown,  and  fixed  his  eye 

Where  aureoled  Beauty  beckoned  him  afar. 
Thy  Lion,  Maid,  and  Knight  shall  never  die, 

O  Childe,  for  of  them  England's  glories  are! 


A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS  339 

MARLOWE 

FOR  him  the  ancient  heavens  relumed  their  fires 

And  starred  his  crown  of  songs  with  lambent  gleams; 
Down  one  sweet  song  a  nightly  cresset  gleams — 

'Tis  Hero's  beaconing  her  love's  desires. 

Yet  dark  and  thundrous,  as  when  Faust  expires, 

And  veined  with  lightning  stands  that  mount  of  dreams 
Down  which  the  lava  of  his  passion  streams, 

Or  soars  from  off  its  cloud-enshrouded  pyres. 

He  was  the  Baptist  heralding  the  morn 

Of  Poesy's  adored  Prince  of  Light. 
He  hath  no  sponsor  save  his  muse  forlorn; 

A  voice  all  sweetness  and  impetuous  might  ; 
A  heart  unbridled  and  a  hope  death-shorn 

Remains — and  squandered  blood  that  hides  from  sight! 


SHAKESPEARE 

WHEN  the  brave  tackle  of  Life's  craft  is  torn, 
And  Hope's  high  pennon  frays  before  the  blast, 
My  star  of  guidance  vanished  in  the  Vast, 

And   the  dun  night  grown  deathful  and   forlorn — 

Then,  turning  fain  to  thee,  the  gates  of  Morn 
Swing  heaven-wide,  and  the  clouds,  all  overcast, 
Are  rolled  from  sight ;  the  rocks  and  shoals  are  passed ; 

Safe  on  thy  affluent  ocean  I  am  borne; 

There  I  hear  Ariel  singing;  there  they  file, 
The  birds  of  Faery  to  their  hid  sea  lair; 

There  with  unnumbered  kiss  Aurora's  smile 
Beams  roseate,  there  she  shakes  her  golden  hair; 

While  down  the  enameled  deeps,  in  sportive  guile, 
The  sea-nymphs  flash  their  ivory  arms  in  air! 


340  A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS 

MILTON 

NEXT  to  our  mightiest  mightiest  dost  thou  stand, 
Great  heart  of  patience,  charged  with  patriot  flame, 
Shining  thy  stateliest  midst  thy  country's  shame, 

A  nobler  Samson  to  that  time's  demand. 

Thou  Orb  of  Song!  whose  prismic  beams  expand 
Still  o'er  thy  country — brightening  forth  her  claim 
To  empire ;  prouder,  sweeter  for  thy  name 

Than  all  the  prescience  that  her  courts  command. 

As  when  within  that  green  Italian  vale 

The  Kiss  of  beauty  touched  thy  sleeping  brow, 
So  did  the  Muse  thy  purpling  years  endow 

With  consecration  to  that  sounding  tale 

Of  Earth  and  Heaven  that  moves  before  us  now, 

And  doth  o'er  Time  and  shifting  modes  prevail. 


DRYDEN 

STOUT,  crowned  with  praise,  the  wits  around  his  chair, 
Sipping  his  cordial  or  his  cup  of  tea, 
Full  primed  with  aphorisms  choice  or  free, 

Sat  "glorious  John,"  who  trimmed  to  every  air! 

The  biggest  brawn  on  the  arena  there, 

He  shook  the  town  with  vauntings,  then  on  knee 
Bartered  his  birthright  for  a  huckster's  fee, 

And  thrust  his  muse  aneath  a  lordling's  care. 

Still  he  brought  valiant  service;  none  that  day 
Might  bide  the  baited  gladiator's  blows; 

His  ponderous  truncheon  crushed  the  foe  at  bay; 
How  grand  to  watch  him  on  MacFlecknoe  close! 

The  drums  resound,  the  trumpets  loudly  bray 
As  down  the  age  that  lordly  galleon  goes! 


A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS  341 

POPE 

BEHOLD  the  foe  of  Grub  Street's  rival  schools, 
The  Richard  Crookback  of  the  kings  of  rhyme, 
Forging  firm  couplets  of  heroic  chime, 

And  routing  all  his  masters  at  their  rules! 

How  brave  an  arsenal  of  shining  tools 
He  brought  to  shape  his  fanciful  sublime, 
Spurning  each  proud  Maecenas  of  the  time, 

And  shoving  all  the  dunces  from  their  stools! 

And  you  deny  him  greatness?     Would  to-day 
Your  acrobatic  bards  could  fill  his  place! 

His  art  and  range  were  bounded?     Who  can  sway 
More  forceful  measures  in  such  narrow  space? 

Yield  him,  O   Fame,   thy  brightest  three-leaved  bay, 
Mind,  manners,  modes — the  Horace  of  his  race! 


BURNS 

HE  was  my  earliest,  nearest,  sweetest  friend! 

His  songs  starred  all  my  firmament  of  dreams; 

Through  them  I  caught  the  first  auroral  gleams 
Of  Her  whose  smile  will  haunt  me  to  the  end. 
Here  was  my  gold,  the  gold  I  might  not  spend ; 

Here  was  my  heaven,  a  heaven  of  earthly  beams; 

I  heard  that  rapture  rippling  like  the  streams; 
I  heard  the  Loves  their  rhythmic  voices  blend. 

Ye  banks  of  Ayr,  how  happy  should  ye  be 

Whereon  the  feet  of  your  dear  minstrel  trod! 

For  even  the  sun,  methinks,  more  tenderly 
Than  other  turf  must  kiss  your  lowly  sod. 

O  happy  Scotland,  earth  doth  envy  thee 
Thy  kingly  ploughman,  thy  disguised  God! 


342  A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS 

SCOTT 

THOSE  broad  bright  Marches,  Ballad  and  Romance, 
Never  were  ruled  by  baron  bold  like  thee! 
No  knight  to  Heaven  or  Beauty  bent  the  knee 

With  more  proud-souled  devotion  in  his  glance. 

All  stately  as  the  Lilies  of  Old  France 
The  banner  of  thy  Fancy  floated  free, 
O'er  damsels,  gallants,  clansmen,  monkish  glee, 

Pageants  and  courts,  and  tourney's  crash  of  lance. 

It  gathered  brilliance  from  ancestral  skies; 

It  pictured  Love,  his  dole  and  holiday; 
Widely  it  blazoned  deeds  of  high  emprise, 

Or  flung  forth  wassail,  feud,  and  gramarye; 
Or  caught  the  gleam  and  glint  of  targe  and  glaive, 
And  blew  to  Border  gales  and  watched  the  tartans  wave! 


BYRON 

BELOVED  Greece,  thy  wreath  adorned  his  pall ! 

The  hero  of  thy  resurrection  time. 

The  vine-crowned  Titan  girt  with  power  sublime, 
Almost  accomplished  Heaven;  unfearing  all, 
He  faced  the  levin  and  the  thunder  brawl 

Scaling  the  heights  of  Song;  his  rebel  prime 

Pelion  on  Ossa  planted;  then  with  rhyme 
Transcendent  on  his  lips  reeled  down  the  wall. 

He  fell,  hard-fighting;  dire  the  clash  and  clang 

Earth  heard  through  all  her  limits — then  sleek  jays 

Piped  chattering  funeral,  and  foul  charnel  kites 

Fed  on  the  warm,  proud  heart;  but  wide  outrang, 

Sweet  Poesy,  thy  plaint  along  the  ways, 
And  Love  and  Freedom  brought  their  tribute  rites. 


A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS  343 

KEATS 

JUST  as  the  earliest  flowers  began  to  blow, 

(He  felt  the  daisies  growing  o'er  his  grave) 
His  fevered  heart  found  rest;  those  grasses  wave 

Unconscious  o'er  the  form  that  sleeps  below; 

Yet  there  the  "rathe  primroses"  surely  know, 
And  tender  violets   (howsoever  rave 
The  rude  winds  o'er  his  slumber)   that  he  gave 

Them  human  love  in  human  hearts  to  grow. 

His  "name  was  writ  in  water?"  still  'tis  called 
By  every  dryad's  ghost  that  mournful  fleets! 

That  name  the  Summer's  pageant  hath  extolled; 
That  name  the  Autumn's  requiem  repeats; 

But  he,  with  charms  of  Faery  deep  enthralled, 

Hears  no  dull  earth-tones  echoing  "where  is  Keats!" 


SHELLEY 

To  shore  the  sea-nymphs  buoyed  their  captive  dead, 
Touched  by  a  human  grief;  yes,  there  lay  hand, 
Heart,  tongue,  and  brain  of  that  august  command, 

All — save  the  soul  that  Heaven  to  music  wed. 

Clung  curling  yet  the  pale  locks  round  the  head; 
Silent  and  prone  upon  the  drifted  sand, 
He  clasped  her  still,  his  loved  Italian  land, 

The  foster-mother  to  whose  breast  he  fled. 

We  raised  him  on  the  pyre — in  one  great  shine 
The  body  chased  the  fleeting  shade — 'twas  meet, 

That  which  had  given  the  flaming  soul  a  shrine 
Should  incorrupt  as  that  bright  soul  retreat; 

Yet,  heart  of  proof,  thy  substance  still  divine, 
Lingering  in  earthly  love,  lay  at  our  feet! 


344  A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS 

COLERIDGE 

THY  mind  and  heart — the  dome  of  Kubla  Khan ! 

These  twain  were  wed,  like  mountain  joined  to  sea, 

In  lofty,  broad,  cloud-merged  sublimity, 
With  words  that  awe  yet  soothe  the  soul  of  man. 
From  Earth  to  Heaven  thy  circling  vision  ran, 

Yet,  free  in  thought,  thy  life  thou  coulds't  not  free; 

The  Knight  of  Poesy,  enchained  in  thee, 
Slept  on  his  arms  and  ne'er  fought  out  his  plan. 

Yet,  Truth,  divined  in  dreams,  blooms  best  in  Art; 

One  dream,  O  mystic,  blown  within  thy  mind, 
Thy  Mariner's  tale,  of  Love's  own  life  a  part, 

This  wizard  bay-wreath  doth  thy  temples  bind; 

This  orphic  banner   floats  to   every  wind — 
One  cross  of  service  blazoned  on  thy  heart! 


WORDSWORTH 

THE  quiet  of  the  woods  was  in  his  soul 

And  in  his  song  were  winds  and  murmuring  streams; 

Across  his  vision  broke  Love's  rarest  gleams, 
And  English  faith  held  o'er  him  proud  control. 
He  was  Truth's  eremite  with  beechen  bowl; 

The  wayside  life  and  legend  shaped  his  themes, 

Led  softly  through  his  meadowy  realm  of  dreams, 
But  round  the  heights  rang  Freedom's  trumpet-roll ! 

Prophet  and  priest  and  bard — the  humble  throng 

He  loved   and  voiced,   from  the   great   Mother   drew 
His  litanies  and  choruses;  the  blue 

Of  Heaven  and  green  of  Earth  illumed  his  song. 
He  was  the  Joshua  of  an  art  made  new, 

And  of  his  peers  the  Godfrey  chaste  and  strong. 


A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS  345 


HOOD 

THERE,  midst  his  children's  noisy,  prattling  play, 

Hard  by  the  dusty  city's  iron  clang, 

A  wing-spurred   Hermes    from   dull   earth   he   sprang 
And   soared  untrammeled  through   the  azure  day. 
That  plumed  Fancy  oared  its  joyous  way 

O'er  magic  oceans  where  the  mermaids  sang; 

Then  veered  once  more  where  human  voices  rang 
Of  Love,  Want,   Crime,  and  Boyhood's  happy  day. 

Alas,  again  the  pack-horse  of  the  Press, 

He  folded  close  his  pinions'  glistering  pride, 
And  to  the  mill  of  jesting  Rhyme  was  tied, 

To  strain  his  heart-strings  in  that  vile  duress; 
Yet  even  the  ignoble  task  he  glorified — 

Through  that  sad  mirth  still  flashed  his  loveliness! 


SCHILLER 

BOTH  lyric  wreath  and  Thespian  crown  were  thine, 
And  thine  the  Germans'  pledge  from  mount  to  sea; 
For  thy  first  thought,  to  make  the  people  free, 

Was  to  those  hungering  souls  Love's  corn  and  wine. 

The  hapless  Mary's  hope  illumes  thy  line, 

While  Wallenstein's  dark  form  abides  with  me 
Since,  when  a  lad,  I  laid  upon  my  knee 

Thy  heart,  all  throbbing  through  its  leathern  shrine. 

The  nations'  tocsin  thine!    Thy  Bell  is  heard 
On  ocean  coasts  scarce  known  to  thee  by  name; 

The  deathless  cadence  of  Tell's  dauntless  word, 
Hath   wed  the   Switzer's   Fatherland  to   fame; 

While  Swabian  youths,  by  thy  bold  measures  stirred, 
Their  proud  old  Eberhard's  liberties  proclaim! 


346  A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS 

GOETHE 

FORTH  from  the  jungle  of  dark  creeds  he  may 

Who  wills  walk  by  thy  star's  unfaltering  shine, 

O  Liberator  Soul!     Thou  dost  define 
And  hold  life's  secrets  in  wise-guarded  sway; 
And  yet  thy  art  looms  amplest,  and  thy  lay 

Pours  forth  enlightening  flame;  and  as  the  Rhine 

Ripples  to  sea,  thy  human-pulsing  line 
Speeds  world  round,  broadening  its  imperial  way. 

Goetz,  Wilhelm  Meister,  Faust — no  haughtier  themes 
By  wizard  genius  e'er  conceived  or  penned! 

These  will  not  cease  "to  feed  our  lake  of  dreams," 
Nor  will  churl  Time  outbrave  them  at  the  end. 

Thought — Love — inwoven  thus  thy  laurel  gleams; 
Poet  and  Seer — yea,  wisest,  truest  Friend! 

BERANGER 

(At  the  Coronation  of  Charles  X.) 

YES,  there  he  stands — you  mark  him  down  the  street, 
Yon,  dream-eyed,  little,   bald,   round-shouldered   man! 
While  Paris  thrums  her  day-long  rataplan 

Of  loud  huzzas  and  million-surging  feet. 

Tyrtaeus  bold  is  he,  Catullus  sweet! 

Or  well  had  passed  in  Tempe's  Vale  for  Pan 
In  modern  garb;  draw  nearer  now  and  scan 

The  form  of  one  whom  kings  have  feared  to  meet! 

Ay,  sirs,  here  Is  the  king!    That  shape  who  goes 
All  drums  and  trappings  merely  stuffs  the  crown; 

Here  rusty  black  and  there  the  ermine  shows; 
The  throne's  a  candle  for  OUT  clerk's  renown ; 

That  galley  toward  the  hungry  Maelstrom  rows; 
This  shallop  storms  nor  hidden  rocks  may  drown ! 


A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS  347 


HUGO 

THOUGH  banished,  Prospero,  to  thy  mid-sea  isle, 

State  thou  maintaindst  most  ample;  thou  could'st  call 
Thy  choiring  Ariel,  or  sea-monsters  haul 

From  sounding  caves  by  magic's  strenuous  wile; 

Thou  could'st  the  storm  unchain,  make  ocean  smile, 
Or  hold  the  hearts  and  minds  of  men  in  thrall; 
Yet  Jeanne  (Miranda,  dearer  far  than  all 

Thy  art)  could  aye  thy  darkest  hour  beguile. 

Beyond  the  surge  thy  natal  dukedom  lay, 
Dominion  of  brave  hearts;  thy  dreaming  eye 

Watched  with  paternal  longing  day  by  day 
Its  coast-line,  where  pale  Freedom  rose  to  die, 

'Til  fell  the  usurper;  then  to  ampler  day 
Restored  thy  passionate  slave  of  sea  and  sky. 


TENNYSON 

THY  fame  stands  wide  as  England's!  If  I  lay 
One  song-wreath  at  thy  feet,  'tis  not  to  grace 
So  much  thy  triumphs,  or  thy  high-throned  place 

Amongst  the  minstrels  of  the  modern  day. 

As  to  confess  thy  erstwhile  sovereign  sway 
O'er  my  affections;  thine  was  once  a  space 
Near  Shakespeare;  if  that  splendor  Time  efface, 

Its  beam  grows  mellower,  may  not  pass  away. 

Thou  art  our  own  King  Arthur — I,  a  knight 
Unscutcheoned,  unannounced  in  lists  of  fame; 

Content  to  win,  when  proved,  some  slight  acclaim 
From  lips  like  thine;  unwilling  most  to  fail 

In  service  or  in  vigil;  keeping  bright 

Armor  like  thine  in  quest  for  Holy  Grail. 


348  A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS 


BROWNING 

THE  tangled  currents  of  the  rhythmic  seas 

Stream  through  thy  song  with  many  a  swirl  and  sweep ; 

With  storm  and  cloud  and  sunshine  o'er  the  deep, 
And  bright  waves  lapping  to  the  variant  breeze. 
Thou   hast  conned  secrets   'tween   Jove's  mighty   knees, 

And  kenned  the  vision  of  life's  toiling  steep; 

Hast  heard  the  strong  men  groan,  the  women  weep, 
And  drank  earth's  gloom  and  glory  to  the  lees. 

What  though  thy  careless  hand  hath  jarred  the  strings? 

Thy  harp  still  rings  to  Thought  and  Beauty  true; 
Though  from  Italian  earth  thy  phoenix  springs, 

Her  gaze  strikes  ever  toward  the  English  blue. 
O,  teacher,  brave  and  wise,  the  proudest  things 

Of  Faith  and  Love  through  fire  have  come  from  you! 


ARNOLD 

THE  World  denied  thee  gold — Heaven  gave  thee  verse; 

A  burst  of  morn  on  Learning's  peaks  of  snow! 

Under  sweeps  ever  Emotion's  tidal  flow 
And  therein  Love  her  fair  form  doth  immerse. 
Nature  and  Art,  these  twain,  thy  mother  and  nurse, 

Mixed  fine  thy  mould  through  thy  grand  age  to  grow; 

Sonorous,  pure,  their  mingled  clarions  blow, 
Unchecked  by  Time  or  Change,  above  thy  hearse. 

Sohrab  and  Rustem,  Tristram,  Marguerite — 
The  twain  of  Homer's  large,  authentic  breed; 
The  third,  Love's  Knight,  faithful  in  word  and  deed ; 

The  last,  Love's  perfect  flower — a  kindred  sweet! 
These  for  thy  fame,  O  royal  palmer,  plead, 

And  lay  their  chaplets  blooming  at  thy  feet! 


A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS  349 

BAYARD  TAYLOR 

HERE  find  the  poet's  scrip, — his  ready  pen, 
The  staff  of  service  on  his  pilgrim  round, 
Now  laid  aside;  for  he  in  sleep  is  bound, 

No  more  to  wander  through  the  ways  of  men ; 

But  these  his   furnishings,  ingathered  when 
He  wandered  all  Arcadia's  laurelled  ground, 
The  cheer  and  nurture  of  his  journey  found, 

He  hath  bequeathed  them  to  the  world  again. 

Herein  note  Love,  his  crust  of  daily  bread, 

Romance,  his  flask  of  wine,  and  Reverie  sweet, 

The  rich-chased  missal  brought  from  Orient  clime ; 
Here  also  Hope,  his  belt,  and  from  his  head 

His  scallop-shell  of  Fancy;  from  his  feet 
The  rhythmic  sandals  of  his  passion,  Rhyme ! 


EMERSON 

VOICE  of  the  deeps  thou  art!     But  not  the  wild, 

Ungoverned   mouthing  of  the  wind-lashed  waves; 

Nor  yet  the  dirge  of  billows  over  graves, 
But  crooning,  like  a  mother  o'er  her  child. 
Through  thee  gross  earth  with  heaven   is  reconciled, 

Thy  songs,  like  anthems  through  cathedral  naves 

Dispel  confusing  passion;  never  raves 
The  storm  along  thy  cloisters  undefiled. 

Light  of  the  deeps  thou  art!  as  forth  I  glide, 
From  rock  and  whirlpool  far,  and  tempest's  roar, 
Sudden  there  looms  an  ever  verdurous  shore, 
Whose  towers  in  the  still  wave  stand  glorified, 
Where  thou,  the  Virgil  who  hast  been  my  guide, 
Lead'st  me  and  leav'st  me  rapt  at  Heaven's  door! 


350  A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS 

LONGFELLOW 

THE  New- World's  sweetest  singer!    Time  may  lay 
Rude  touch  on  some,  his  betters,  yet  for  me, 
His  seat  is  where  the  throned  immortals  be, 

The  chaste  affections  answering  to  his  sway. 

As  fair,  as  fresh  as  children  of   the  May, 

His  songs,  spring  up  from  wood  and  sun-bathed  lea, 
Yet  oft  the  rhythmic  cadence  of  the  sea 

Rolls  'neath  his  verse  and  speeds  its  shining  way. 

In  borrowed  robes  our  English  buckram  yields 

Small  charm  of  style,  but  his  he  wears  with  grace. 
Thru  him  the  grave-eyed  Florentine  finds  place 

Among  us;  but  across  Acadian  fields 

Who  is  it  moves  with  rapt  and  pensive  face  ? 

Evangeline — to  all  thy  love  appeals! 


LOWELL 

POET,  who  bore  thy  crown  of  seventy  years 

As  greenly  as  the  chaplet  of  thy  bays, — 

Who  from  thy  throne  of  thought  o'er-looked  the  maze 
Of  human  life,  high  lifting  midst  thy  peers 
Heaven-lighted  minstrel  brows, — no  envious  shears 

Of  fate  may  clip  thy  laurels,  but  thy  lays, 

Brightened  by  Fame,  bloom  thru  thy  winter's  days, 
Sunned  in  our  smiles  and  watered  with  our  tears. 

Not  to  the  craftsman  merely,  nor  the  calm, 
Keen-sighted  critic,  nor  the  patriot  stirred 

With  passion,  do  our  grateful  hearts  belong — 
But  to  the  new  Crusader  with  his  palm 

And  cross  of  valiant  service,  viewed  and  heard 
Through  the  long,  vow-knit  vigil  of  his  song. 


A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS  351 

WHITTIER 

THE  call  was  Freedom's  loudest — 'neat  that  blast 
Down  crashed  the  walls  of  Slavery's  Jericho! 
(Beware,  ye  proud,  the  fighting  Quaker's  blow, 

When  once  he  strikes  ye  well  may  stand  aghast!) 

Now  all  those  storms  are  far  forspent  and  past, 
Thy  martial  trumpet  long  attuned  to  peace, 
While  still  to  bring  the  courts  of  Heaven  increase, 

Those  olive  blooms  of  song  abroad  are  cast. 

O,  strong  and  faithful  watchman — may  this  state 
In  memory  long  that  lifted  warning  keep! 

Thy  strenuous  voice  hath  given  us  bonds  to  fate;  \ 

We  dread  no  harm  while  we  that  blessing  reap; 

Old  age,  'twas  never  thine — a  warm,  sedate, 
A  mellow  sunset  brooded  o'er  thy  sleep! 


WHITMAN 

IN  him,  time-balanced  mind  and  cosmic  heart 

With  common  human  speech  were  reconciled. 

Heed  not  the  jargon  tongue,  the  phrase  defiled, 
The  roughened  hand,  ignoring  forms  of  art. 
Nay,  from  his  breast  what  yearning  sighs  depart ! 

Hark  how  those  vibrant  tones  grow  pure  and  mild! 

While  with  the  freeborn  heart-beat  of  the  Child 
His  Earth-song  rises  and  the  echoes  start. 

What  sentient  wind  makes  answer?     'Tis  thy  breath 
Borne  round  these  shores,  O  Queen  Democracy! 
He  stands  thy  spokesman,  thy  new  prophet,  he; 

He  leads  those  souls  whose  faith  o'ermasters  death ; 

She  triumphs  still!  whate'er  the  Preacher  saith, 
The  horn  of  Odin  blows  and  men  are  free! 


352  A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS 


MORRIS 

CHAUCER  and  Spenser,  gather  him  to  your  heart, 

That  burly  Radical  of  dreamy  rhyme! 

And  crown  him  with  the  Trouvere's  bay  sublime, 
That  ne'er  till  now  had  graced  the  British  mart; 
Tho  late,  for  him  the  story-teller's  art 

Came  glamorous  out  of  Fancy's  buoyant  clime, 

The  mintage  of  the  golden  ore  that  Time 
Draws  from  world  childhood ;  for  he  voiced  in  part 

Your  mid-sea  swaying  melodies,  the  breath 
Of  pastoral  lands,  of  flowery  meads,  and  meres, 

And  your  pale,  poignant  picturing  of  death, 
And  your  dear,  tender  ruth  for  love  in  tears. 

No  idle  singer,  he,  whate'er  he  saith; 
His  pilgrim  torch  relumes  the  shadowed  years! 


KIPLING 

THE  East  hath  reared  her  Viking!  lo,  he  comes 
Laurelled  with  victory  to  the  purpled  West, 
Voicing  the  proud,  vexed  century's  unrest, 

With  fifes,  harps,  sackbuts,  psalteries,  and  drums. 

His   galley,    pitched    with    rare    and    odorous    gums, 
Floats  far  the  Dragon  o'er  the  billow's  crest; 
Neath  bellying  sail  his  round  world  keel  is  pressed ; 

The  Empire  trade-wind  through  its  cordage  hums. 

No  vassal  laureate  he!  he  wears  the  crown 
Of  English  hearts,  the  roses  never  sere; 

The  rooted  loves  that  bloom  in  bold  renown; 
Those  sheaves  of  promise  ripening  in  the  ear, 

The  pledge  of  birthright  nations!   'gainst   the  frown 
Of  Fate  herself,  stands  England's  faith  writ  clear! 


A  GARLAND  OF  SONNETS  353 

MISTRAL 

O  FAIR  Provence,  thou  land  of  corn  and  wine! 

Provence,  thou  brave,  sweet  home  of  Love  and  Song! 

In  arts,  in  arms,   in  princely  feeling  strong, 
Once  more  the  dream  of  Poesy  is  thine! 
Thine  is  the  latest  Troubadour  whose  line 

From  Ronsard  runs  in  honor;  of  that  throng 

King  gleeman,  who  still  wind  their  pipes  along 
From  towered  Avignon  to  Camargue's  blue  brine. 

Mireio,  of  Death  the  dearest  bride, 

Thy  love  and  grief  for  aye,  for  aye  are  sung! 

The  Homer  of  his  cherished  vineyard  side, 
His  heart  e'er  tender,  bountiful,  and  young, 

Swells  bold  with  song,  with  more  than  Roman  pride — 
The  brave  Horatius  of  his  native  tongue! 


L'ENVOI 

Go  forth,  my  little  book,  my  child  of  Song! 

My  chiefest  solace  all  these  years  along. 

I've  writ  thee  with  small  thought  of  praise  or  pelf, 

I've  writ  thee  studiously  to  please  myself; 

I've  writ  thee  lovingly;  but,  comrade,  now 

Godspeed!  my  true  interpreter  be  thou. 


DATS  DUE 

JUNO  6 

jy»y  u  • 

GAYLORD 

PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 

UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  L  BRA R Y  jAjj[j|™. 

AA   001248911    8 


